Walking Between Stones
by Poisoned Ink
Summary: Harry tries to reconnect the broken pieces of his past when he is suddenly faced with an uncertain future. Slash. Harry's POV. WIP.
1. Revelations of the Soul

Part 1 – Revelations of the Soul

What do you think of when you hear the word 'magic'? A miraculous power that can accomplish anything? A mysterious entity that Muggles write fantastical stories about and would kill to actually have at their fingertips?

I laugh at the simplicity of a Muggle's imaginative scope. They want the ability to clean a house with the flick of a wrist, to have money appear in never-ending piles, to get from one place to another without putting forth any physical effort. These ideas are selfish and narrow-minded, but I once thought as they did, growing up with Muggles as I have.

Magic should be so much more. For a time I began to believe that magic could solve any problem; the magic of Avada Kedavra allowed me to kill my greatest enemy, it granted me my greatest wish of leaving the Dursley's home and giving me a chance to feel like I belonged somewhere. Without the existence of magic I never would have met my two best friends, my first lover, my godfather, and I never would have seen moving pictures of my dead parents.

You could say magic gave me life.

Of course, one could also argue that magic was the source of all my problems as well. Without magic there never would've existed a dark wizard named Voldemort, my parents would not have been murdered and I would never have had to endure growing up in the Dursley's abusive care. Without magic I would not have met and then lost my two best friends, my lover, and my godfather.

So you see, there are two sides to everything. There is no dark and light magic – there's only magic.

Perhaps I am being too cynical. I didn't used to think this way, I used to see myself as an optimist, or at least a realist, but now I look and see that the glass is in fact half empty. I try to tell myself that I am too young to think like this, but I've never really been young...and now I'll never be old.

Is that poetic justice or irony? Maybe it's both.

I don't use the word 'magic' any more, its taste has grown bitter on my tongue. I feel like it has betrayed me.

As I glance at the Muggle faces lining the hallway, I see so much despair and pain, and fruitless hope. I wish I was as ignorant of the real existence of magic as they were. Would I still be as cynical and bitter? Perhaps. Yet, the Muggles believe in their own kind of magic, some type of higher power that controls their lives. I have to say that that's even more depressing than the absolute uselessness of wizard magic. At least wizard magic is simply a non-living power, it doesn't think for itself or decide your fate – people control it. How can Muggles take comfort in the idea that there's some one with a soul, a conscience even, somewhere up above causing so much misery here on earth? How can you have faith in a masochistic god?

I shove my hands into my coat pockets and avert my eyes, deciding to keep my gaze on the shiny linoleum floor instead of the gallery of faces surrounding me; each human face painted a different emotion. Each one a blank canvas until life slowly stains it with the painful heartaches of life's lessons. I have seen every one of these emotions mirrored in my own eyes; innocent hope, pain, anger, loss, and reluctant acceptance.

My shoes squeak loudly as I hurry my steps.

I emerge outside at last and squint against the bright sun burning overhead. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and look around for an available taxi. I've lived as a Muggle for nearly eight years now and I still don't own my own car.

I guess it hardly matters now.

I finally spot a waiting cab and signal it over from the curb. As I settle back into the worn leather seat, I find my mind wandering back to magic again. I hadn't thought about it in so long, I wonder if I can even still do it.

I could use a time-turner to return myself to yesterday and then avoid going to the hospital today altogether. But that won't change anything, except that I'd be the only one to know the truth instead of me and the doctor, it won't make it any less real.

I could use a memory charm to erase any knowledge of this day and its cruel revelations, but again that won't change the fact. No matter what I do it'll still be waiting for me in the end, and magic can't stop the future from coming – it can only delay it for awhile.

I close my eyes and lean my head back wearily. I wish it were raining outside instead of this warm sunlight that streams down on me with its inappropriate cheer.

I hate magic. It is a false promise, something that mocks me with its seemingly wonderful qualities but in the end is revealed for the cheap trick that it is.

My house is as cold and empty as it was when I left it this morning. I throw myself down onto the couch and stare blankly at the silent television across from me. I can see my reflection in its shiny, grey surface.

I somehow think that I should look different - I feel different. I look closely but I all I see is the same old scar, the same old eyes, and the same old messy hair. At twenty-nine I'm hardly any different from when I was eighteen. Maybe because when I was eighteen I already felt thirty years old, just as now I feel at least twenty years older than I am. I think I aged a lifetime today, which is good since in reality I don't have a lifetime to live anymore.

I blink and my reflection blinks. I lift my hand to scratch my chin and likewise does my mirrored twin.

I wonder if people will be able to look at me and see what's inside. If they'll somehow see the disease eating away my body and slowly stealing my life. I can't see it...yet. I guess it's only a matter of time. I wonder if I'll be able to feel it. The thought doesn't frighten me as much as it should, I've lived through too many rounds of Cruciatus to be scared of pain after all.

I let out a bitter bark of laughter as I realize that everyone around me always fought so hard to keep me alive during my turbulent school years to only now have my life cut short anyway.

I'm surprised to feel the prickle tears in the back of my eyes.

I stand abruptly and fight the urge to cry. I will not fall to pieces over this.

Even though I know sleep will elude me tonight, I decide to go to bed.

As I stare up at the ceiling I come to a decision; tomorrow I will quit my job. I have enough money to see me through the remainder of my life, however long or short that may be.

My mind restlessly jumps from thought to thought as I lay thinking through the dark hours of the night. My mind always did think clearer at night, thoughts and ideas always seemed to come to me so easily during that peaceful stretch of twilight. As much as I treasured and loved my friends, I always did relish being alone. Now I wish I still had them to talk to when daylight appears tomorrow.

Maybe I should call them.

No, that wouldn't be right. I can't drive them away only to call them back when I'm dying. They could probably care less anyway.

I roll onto my side and tuck my hands underneath my pillow.

I don't even know where Ron is now, I've been out of touch for so long that I've lost track of him. I know Hermione is a medi-witch somewhere. I wish I could talk to her, she might even be able to help me.

I roll onto my other side and look out the window. It's a very clear night and I can see thousands of tiny stars up in the black sky.

No, Hermione can't help me. There isn't a miracle cure for AIDS in either world – magic or non. I'm going to die no matter what world I belong to.

I hate magic.


	2. An Angel's Tears

  
Part 2 – An Angel's Tears

  
  
The next day was another one of my 'tired days' as I've come to call them. My doctor thought I had mono for awhile but now I know it's just one of the many warning signs for...this disease.

I don't like to call it by its name, it's not that I'm in denial, it's just that when you have something affecting you that you can't see then it's hard to accept or even believe that it's real. I just don't like using the 'A' word, I don't even think it.

I couldn't even say it to my boss when I quit today. I simply explained to him that I had some personal problems to work out and that I had to leave. He thinks its alcohol related because of the way I used to talk about all the bars I frequented when I first started working here. Little does he know that I hardly ever drink and that those were gay bars I was visiting on my nights off. I don't correct him though, I'll let him think what he wants. I've been doing that all my life, letting people believe what they want about me. He would rather believe that I was a drunken straight man rather than a dying gay man, and I'll just let him continue thinking that because sometimes the truth is more trouble than it's worth.

I can see the attraction though, of drowning your sorrows in alcohol, who doesn't want to leave behind their inhibitions, forget their worries, and see the world through rose-tinted glasses? Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I don't like the taste of alcohol. I also don't trust myself to find the strength to crawl out of the alcoholic gutter and face reality again once I'd fallen in. The last thing I need to do right now is hide from one problem by acquiring another.

I turn my back on the factory where I've worked the assembly lines for the last three years and walk away without a backward glance.

I've never had so much free time before. The thought of the entire day stretching before with nothing planned is a little daunting.

I watch the Muggles scurry past, hiding under their black umbrellas, rushing to get somewhere as fast as humanly possible. I feel like I'm moving in slow motion as they push past me in the opposite direction, an un-named urgency in their almost frantic movements. The familiar feeling of isolation washes over me as I struggle against the human traffic of the city sidewalk. I feel like I'm the only one without a place to go or people to see.

I've never had an unplanned moment in my life; from my daily chores at the Dursleys as far back as I can remember, to my structured school life, then working as an Auror and fighting in the war, and finally to my working days as a Muggle. The thought of all this free time is making me uneasy. I wonder if this is how people feel on their first day of retirement? Although, those people always seem relieved and excited. This is more like forced retirement.

I spot a coffee shop on the corner across from me and jog through the rain towards it. The inside smells of cinnamon and the comforting aroma of brewing coffee.

I glance uninterestedly around the small shop as I patiently wait my turn in the long queue of customers. It's extremely busy this morning, probably due to the poor weather outside forcing people to seek comfort in the ever growing coffee shop industry. There's a lot to be said for the comfort of a steaming cup of coffee and a pastry, something those money-grubbing executives at Starbucks take great pleasure in charging a small fortune for.

As the girl bustles off to fill my order I glance at the calendar hanging on the wall behind the cashier and notice with a start that today is July thirtieth, which means...tomorrow is my birthday.

How could it have snuck up on me like that?

I thank the girl and take my coffee outside to drink at an empty table under the faded green awning.

I know my life has been a bit distracting lately, but to forget my birthday altogether? That would've been unthinkable only a few years ago when I treasured celebrating my birthday more than anything, especially when I still was with Draco. He never celebrated birthdays as a child either, so we always planned ridiculously extravagant parties for each other.

I miss that.

I take a sip of my coffee as I listen to the pleasant sound of rain drops pattering on the canvas above me. I always liked the rain, everything about it – from the sound, the feel, and the damp smell of it in the air. I suppose growing up in Britain forces you to embrace the wet weather.

I pick up my plastic cup and decide to take a walk with no destination in mind. I don't have an umbrella with me, so I just let the rain fall onto my bare head uncaringly. My hair is soon plastered down and my trousers soaked through.

I feel a little guilty as the chill settles onto my skin, my doctor warned me that I would be more susceptible to pneumonia now. I take another sip of coffee and push away that nagging inner voice.

My feet carry me across the wet pavement and an unsettling tenseness thrums just under my skin. I'm not sure if it's the caffeine causing this feeling of nervous energy or not. I want to be somewhere, but I'm not sure where. I want to find a safe haven or sanctuary where I can simply be alone, though it's close to impossible to find a private corner in a city as large and as heavily populated as this one.

I find myself wandering for what feels like hours, but a glance at my watch tells me that it's only been forty-five minutes. I've long since discarded my empty coffee cup and I walk slowly with my hands in my pockets.

I amble past row upon row of houses and peer through the illuminated windows curiously. Some are empty, some show mothers or nannies with their children, some show people working, watching television, or retired couples deep in conversation.

The picturesque scenes give me no joy.

At the end of the street is a tall, wrought iron fence. The black barrier stretches on for miles, disappearing from view. Beyond the iron bars is a sloping hill of neatly trimmed grass, dotting the massive field are rows upon rows of stone crosses and marble headstones.

I am transfixed by the sight. It doesn't depress or sadden me, but fills me with the peaceful solitude that I had been searching for all morning.

Is it sick to find comfort in a graveyard? I don't care at this moment and push open the front gate without another thought.

The rain has let up and the air is heavy with mist as I enter the cemetery. My trainers begin to squelch noisily as the wet grass brushes across the thin fabric.

I stop and look around me. On the top of the hill is the largest tombstone in sight, it stands proud and tall in the surrounding fog and I decide that that is my destination.

I ignore the tightness in my chest as I climb the steep hillside, the burning in my leg muscles reminding me that I haven't done any physical activity for quite awhile.

I finally reach the top and stand before the stone statue. It is shaped like an angel, her head bowed, eyes closed, and her hands pressed together – palm to palm. The statue itself must be at least ten feet tall.

I stare up at her face for a moment, then drop my gaze to the inscription carved into the grey stone below. It reads: 'His body lies beneath the ground, an angel rests above, yet the soul can not be contained, for it will live on in my love.'

I feel sad for the first time since entering the quiet field, and I walk around to the other side of the angel and sit down. My back rests against the marble base and I can see over the endless expanse of country-side in front of me.

I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around them for warmth, my chin resting on top and my eyes closed.

I can't believe that it's my thirtieth birthday tomorrow. It's strange, but I feel as if it was only last week that I graduated from Hogwarts and it feels like years since I made that life-altering trip to the hospital yesterday. It's funny how time works.

I wonder how I should celebrate this milestone? My thoughts immediately turn to the obvious absence of family and friends, and my heart aches painfully as I think about them. I sit here in a cold and damp cemetery yearning for the touch of a loved one and I realize how sad and self-pitying this whole situation is. I can't even turn to the artificial comfort of an anonymous man's bed anymore. I'm too ashamed to tell them that I am 'tainted' and too decent to not tell them.

I open my eyes and finally allow myself the luxury of crying here in this deserted field of expired life. There's no one to see me and the physical release lends me a little comfort. I realize the irony of thinking about how depressing my birthday is going to be whilst sitting in a place where the inhabitants will never have that chance again.

As the hot tears trail down my frozen skin I realize that I'm not crying because my life now has an expiry date, but because I have no one to spend what time I do have left with.

My doctor told me that I would eventually feel the need to talk to someone and he was right. I want the advice of someone that's been in my position, I want to be able to be myself and not hide, but most of all I want the reassurance that life can go on and that I'm not alone.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the crumpled white card. I've kept it with me since yesterday, with no intention of ever really using it. I look down at the stark black print that lists the place and times of a nearby support group.

I stand up with a sigh and walk around to look at the angel's face again.

"Well, what do you think?" I ask aloud. "Should I go?"

Droplets of rain trail down her cracked stone face and it looks eerily as if she's crying.

"What have I got to lose?" I mutter quietly.

I turn my back on her sombre expression and walk back down the hill. I push through the gate and let it clang shut as I leave the cemetery behind me.


	3. The Blame Game

Part 3 - The Blame Game

The fluorescent lighting flickers and hums overhead as I enter the old classroom. The dilapidated building is located in the bad part of town, the part of town where society pushes the unwanted reminders of the 'real world'. A world outside the realm of Gucci, Versace, and Prada; names and labels as foreign to them as if they are from another planet. 

The street is a veritable tableau of the stark realities of life. Addicts haunt every corner and dealers lurk in every shadow. It is a rampant breeding ground for disease, littered with dirty needles that have been passed around countless times without being cleaned and nearly comatose users lying in the alleyways.

Some of the people gathered in the meeting room don't look much better off than the poor souls outside.

I creep inside as discreetly as possible and quickly choose one of the blue plastic chairs in the small circle. Most of the people are still milling about, clutching white polystyrene cups of coffee and gazing warily at each other. A very few are attempting actual conversation, as forced and awkward as it might have been, and fewer still are smiling - save one.

I immediately label him as the 'do-gooder' counsellor type; a young, fresh out of college man that wants to solve the problems of the world with a smile and a pat on the back. I secretly take in his too bright shirt, too trendy jeans, and too styled hair. He is young, blond, and attractive, with a Ken doll smile.

I hate him already.

I turn away from the man who looks so out of place with his glowing enthusiasm in this pit of depression, and glance over my fellow group members.

They are mostly male, although a few women (obviously addicts), stand fidgeting amongst the quiet crowd. Some of the people fit the stereo-typical street person: frail, baggy clothes, un-washed hair, and wide untrusting eyes. While others look to be as normal as myself.

Although, what is normal? I must concede that I am probably the only wizard here, and _that _could hardly be considered 'normal'.

It suddenly dawns on me that here, AIDS is normal.

The one common bond between us, no matter what your social status. The one thing we all share.

The thought is oddly comforting.

Then the do-gooder opens his mouth.

"Good evening, everyone-"

His voice sounds exactly the way I knew it would - bright and cheerful, with that underlying layer of sympathy that borders on pity. I don't even have to look at him to know that his words are accompanied by an irritating tilt of the head.

"- please take a seat."

I watch the others shuffle over to the circle of chairs and sit down, most of them looking as if they'd rather be anywhere else but here. It makes me wonder if there are that many first-timers like myself, or if they simply have no where else to go.

"My name is Ryan." He smiles. "I graduated from the Glasgow Caledonian University three years ago. I am twenty-seven and I contracted AIDS at the age of twenty-two."

I look up in surprise.

I don't know why, but I never even considered the possibility that this enthusiastic life-embracer would actually _have_ the disease. He looks so young and healthy.

I don't know if that makes me hate him more or less.

"I see some new faces here tonight-"

I quickly lower my eyes to the floor as Ryan's clear blue gaze sweeps around the circle.

"- and I would just like to welcome you and hope you find these sessions beneficial. Just think of these meetings as medicinal - absorbing the good energy and forcing out the bad. This is medicine for the soul rather than the physical self."

I swallow a snort with difficulty and glance around the group to see if anyone else finds this guy as ridiculous as I do.

Apparently not.

"I would like to centre tonight's discussion on blame, and how you all feel towards the person you hold responsible for your current situation."

I fold my arms over my chest and sit back, waiting for some one to speak up.

Ryan smiles in encouragement. "How about you?" he says, turning towards the middle-aged man beside him.

"Me?" the poor guy asks anxiously.

Ryan nods and continues to smile.

"Well, er...I guess I feel angry."

"Towards them?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah."

"Was this person your lover? Dealer...?"

I raise a brow at the blunt audacity of Ryan's questioning.

"Er...lover," the man mumbles.

"And did you have unprotected sex?"

I feel a spike of anger in my chest as I repress the urge to slap his Ken-doll face. Was this group-therapy or a morality lesson?

"Yes." Barely audible.

"Did you know that he had AIDS?"

"No, of course not."

"Did _he_ know?"

"Yes...at least, I think so."

"But you're not sure?"

"I don't know, I guess...maybe."

Ryan almost looks pleased. "Thank you for sharing. I bet many of you here are in the same boat as this man. How many of you are still in contact with the person you hold responsible?"

A total of five people raise their hands - three women and two men.

"Why is that?" Ryan asks, looking around.

"How am I supposed to carry on a conversation with the person responsible for cutting my life short?" a man to my left demands loudly.

"The same you would anyone else," Ryan answers calmly. "What you have to understand, and then get past, is that ultimately the blame rests with yourselves. It was your choice to have unsafe sex, it was your choice to inject that contaminated needle into your body. These feelings that you are experiencing, like anger, resentment, regret, they're pointless, and a waste of energy. Face the facts - you have AIDS. Now get over it and start living. Sometimes talking to that person can be cathartic, a release."

He pauses and takes a sip from his bottle of water.

"Now, I'd like to try a group exercise. Going around the circle, I want each of you to say the person's name out loud that you feel is at fault for you having AIDS. First names only, alright? I'll start - Michael."

Moving to the right, names were spoken loud and clear from each and every person.

"Ben," I say as my turn comes. It feels strange to say his name again.

Around it went, faceless names being tossed into the air, hanging over our heads like little personal storm clouds. Some names were literally thrown, spat with anger and bitterness, others sounded hollow and indifferent, nonchalant even.

"Good." Ryan nods when we have finished. "Now, how many of you are one hundred percent sure that the name you just uttered is definitely the one responsible?"

Twelve hands are raised, some rather tentatively.

I begin to raise my arm as well, but suddenly feel uncertain and waver.

"Ah, you see? You'd better make sure you're placing all that blame on the right person. I urge you to call these people, talk to them, but don't accuse them and don't demand an apology. Remember, _you_ must deal with the consequences of your actions..."

I begin to tune him out as I think about Ben for the first time in a long while. It had to have been him. I couldn't be wrong, could I?

If I am, then it had to have been Andrew, and if it was Andrew, then I was already infected when I was with...

Shit. I had to know for sure.

I anxiously await the end of the meeting, not absorbing another word from the walking Ken doll, and continually glance at my watch every few minutes.

I rush home to my empty flat, shove aside the cold greasy cartons of last night's Chinese food, and unearth my old phone book. I flip it to the middle, the pages falling open to the spot automatically from wear, and pick up the phone.

I take a deep breath and with shaking fingers quickly punch in the number.

"Hello?"

I take another breath and close my eyes. "Draco?"


	4. A Friday Matinee

Part 4 - A Friday Matinee

  
  
There he is.

He looks like an out of place tourist in my mind's eye, a figure from a long ago dream rudely thrust into the harsh reality of everyday life – my life, or lack there-of.

He is all confidence and elegance; not a strand of hair out of place, not a wrinkle or loose thread threatening the perfection of his grey Armani suit.

He's different, and yet the same. He isn't the Draco I knew and he is. He's a little like an actor in a play.

_'Tonight the part of Draco Malfoy will be played by...'_

I stood by and watched the curtain fall on our story seven years ago and here I stand on the brink of an encore presentation.

The wizarding world with all of its awe-inspiring magic and glorified heroes is not the youthful dreamland that I once believed it to be. Draco Malfoy has aged while I wasn't looking. He's finally grown into that haughty superiority that he tried so vainly to pull off as a teenager. He possesses a more mature air, a subdued confidence, a quiet understatement of power, and he's still as sexy as sin.

I stand outside on the pavement of Bruton Street, observing Draco's countenance through the Guinea Grill's glass window. Business men continually brush past me and enter the pub with their clients and co-workers, and I wait for the moment when Draco will look up and see me standing here.

He slowly drinks his pint of Young's and examines the black leather planner spread open on the bar in front of him.

Draco doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable, in fact, he looks completely at home here.

All of a sudden I feel the urge to make a run for it. He hasn't seen me yet, I can still slip away unnoticed.

Stand up a Malfoy? That'd be a first.

But this lunch is more than just the reunion of old school rivals and ex-lovers, it's for my own peace of mind. Selfish perhaps, but I really don't want (or need), another death on my hands.

I watch as Draco takes a quick glance at his silver wristwatch.

I turn away from the window and sit down on the wood and wrought iron bench placed out front of the pub. Pink and purple flower baskets are revolving slowly in the breeze over my head alongside the Grill's quietly rustling black and gold awning.

I close my eyes and breathe, reflecting upon the horribly stilted telephone conversation that led up to this moment.

_"Hello?"_

_"Draco?"_

_A pause. "Is that you, Potter?"_

_At least one hurdle past – I don't have to tell him who I am. "Yes."_

_Another pregnant pause. "Was there something you wanted or did you just call to see if I was still alive?"_

_What's that supposed to mean? Was he simply being sarcastic or was there a deeper meaning to his words?_

_I lean on my kitchen counter, my forehead resting in my palm._

_"Potter?"_

_"Yeah, I'm still here." I wearily rub a hand over my eyes._

_"Could've fooled me."_

_Ah, now there's some of that famous finely disguised Malfoy sarcasm, that seemingly unaffected voice spoken with just the barest hint of bitterness. I know every nuance, every inflection of that smooth voice. Years of studying its depth and subtlety serves me well as I listen to him over the phone. _

_"As stimulating as this is, Potter, I must urge you to get to the point. I have a busy life you know...or maybe you don't."_

_There it is again. Maybe it's more hurt or wounded pride rather than a festering bitterness. _

_Doubtful, but possible._

_"How are you, Draco?" I ask with difficulty, the syllables of his name sticking in my throat._

_A dry laugh escapes the other end. "I don't know why you suddenly care about my well-being, but since you asked – I'm doing just fine. How are you?"_

_I smile and lower myself onto one of my rusty kitchen stools._

_That's a loaded question, but not a subject I care to get into over the phone._

_"I'm fine," I reply, injecting a sense of easy cheerfulness. For some reason I don't want him to know that anything is wrong._

_"Was there anything else then, Potter?" Draco asks, not even making an attempt to hide his impatience._

_"We need to talk."_

_"I thought that's what we were doing."_

_I pause before blindly plunging ahead. "I need to see you."_

_There's silence on the other end._

_"Draco?"_

_"Yeah." He exhales heavily and I can almost see him running his hand through his hair. "Sure, fine. Meet me for lunch tomorrow at noon at the Guinea Grill in London."_

_"Great, thanks-"_

_A loud click and the line goes dead._

_"-Draco," I finish lamely._

_I hold out the receiver and stare at it, inwardly groaning at the thought of an entire in person face to face lunch with that man._

I glance over my shoulder and catch Draco closing his notebook and slipping it into a leather briefcase.

This shouldn't be so hard. I shouldn't be so intimidated by this man. I've seen him naked, I've seen him gushing blood, I've seen him cry, I've...

Oh, sod it all to hell.

I stand and push through the glass doors.

Draco is in the midst of straightening up from placing his briefcase back on the floor at his feet when his eyes meet mine. He pauses for only a fraction of a second before standing, a cool smile in place and his right hand extending for a formal handshake.

I must admit that I'm a little thrown by this. I'm certainly not deluded enough to expect a hug, but a handshake? It's so cold, so impersonal, so distancing, so...putting me in my place.

"Hello, Draco." I smile in way of greeting.

"You look like shit, Potter."

My smile turns to a smirk as I firmly grasp his hand. "As complimentary as ever, I see."

Draco returns the smirk but his eyes are still cool. "Join me for a pint?" He seats himself back on his bar stool and indicates the empty seat next to him.

"I don't drink anymore," I say casually, pulling out the mahogany stool.

Draco eyes me speculatively. "No wonder you look like hell, you could use one."

"No thanks." I wave the bartender over and order a water.

Draco watches me suspiciously, as if trying to work out an especially complicated puzzle. "So why did you want to see me?"

I calmly place my hands on top of the bar. "I thought we were going to have lunch?"

"The restaurant's in the back and doesn't open for another fifteen minutes, we'll have to wait. What did you want to talk about?"

"It can wait."

Draco raises a pale brow in annoyance. "So I'm to endure fifteen minutes of small talk before you get to the point?"

"Yes," I reply irritably. "So sorry to submit you to the tediousness of my company."

"Yes, well...you should be."

I roll my eyes as the bartender returns with my water. "Thank you. So, how is your family?" I ask in an attempt at civility.

"The wife and kids are fine," he replies flippantly, reaching for his beer and taking a long drink.

I wrap my hands around my glass with a sigh, drops of condensation running down over my fingers. A glance at the antique clock on the wall across from me tells me that we still have fourteen minutes to go. "I see you haven't grown out of your whole sarcasm thing."

"It serves me well."

"Aren't you getting a little old for it?"

"I am _not_ old, I'm three months younger than you are. Speaking of which, isn't it your birthday today?"

"You remembered," I say in surprise.

"I hope you're not expecting any presents, or a gaggle of waiters to come marching in during lunch to present you with a bowl of ice cream topped off with a sparkler."

"I'm not holding my breath."

There's an awkward silence as Draco drains the rest of his glass.

"I have to ask," I speak up. "Why did you choose a muggle restaurant in the middle of London?"

Draco carefully wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin before answering. "Because I work nearby and this place is convenient. I often take my lunches here."

"You...work nearby?" I am completely thrown by this bit of information.

His brow creases slightly as he turns to stare at me. "I know you disappeared from wizarding society, but are you so completely cut off that you have no idea what's going on at all?"

"I..." I frown and shake my head.

Draco's expression carefully smoothes over as he places a few pounds onto the bar for his beer. "I own the I.W.R.C. which-"

"What's that?"

"Have you been living in a cave, Potter?" he snaps.

"Yes. What is the I.W.R.C.?"

"It stands for International Wizarding Relations Corporation."

"And you do what exactly?"

"Just as the name would _suggest_, Potter, we establish co-operative relationships with wizards from other countries all over the world. We conduct business, trade ideas, share information and new technology, plus we monitor the muggles and keep an eye on their activities. We've also just recently struck a deal with Satan and have agreed to hand over all first born muggle children to him in exchange for a wider range of Bertie Bott's flavours."

"Thank you for your honesty," I reply dryly.

"No problem. Now I think it's your turn to spill, what has the elusive Harry Potter been up to?"

I take a large gulp of water and crunch thoughtfully on an ice cube.

Draco's aristocratic nose wrinkles in disgust.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, swallowing.

"Where are you working now?"

"No where."

Draco swivels on his stool to lean sideways against the bar and stares directly at me. "No where? What happened to your job at the children's welfare centre?"

"_Wizarding_ children," I remind him with a hardened edge to my voice.

"You gave up helping abused children just because of your selfishness?"

"You're hardly one to talk," I say through clenched teeth.

Draco waves his hand dismissively. "Fine, so you've been unemployed for seven years."

"Not quite. If you really want to know, the list of my short-lived careers is as follows," I tick them off one by one on my fingers, "Auror, children's welfare worker, cook, bus boy, and assembly line worker in a paper manufacturing plant. I quite my last job yesterday. Anything else you want to know?"

"Yes. Why the hell did you call me here today?" Draco's cool eyes suddenly narrow. "Do you need money? Is that why you called me, because you need to borrow money?"

"No!" I exclaim in disbelief. "I don't need any money, and believe me, you'd be the last person I'd call if I did."

"Well you certainly couldn't call, Weasley."

I pause distractedly. Sitting here with Malfoy and hearing him take shots at Ron's financial status has just given me a serious case of deja vu. Somehow it doesn't feel like that previous life happened to me anymore now that I've been forced to live in the non-magical world, or the 'real world' as I refer to it. I feel like I'm breaking a barrier, spanning the line between two different worlds as I sit here in a muggle pub conversing with the ex-prince of Slytherin. I almost long for the days when it was Malfoy and his goons pitted against us – incomparable Gryffindor trio.

"Have you seen Ron at all lately?" I ask, snapping back to the present.

"Oh yes, just yesterday we were at the local garbage dump picking out a couch for his shack."

"Would you stop?" My tolerance level is dropping rapidly.

"Then don't ask foolish questions. We weren't friends before and we certainly aren't now."

"I was just wondering if maybe you'd heard how he was doing is all," I mutter, quickly growing tired of our verbal sparring. I'd forgotten how draining they could be. "It's just like old times, isn't it?"

Draco once again deliberately smoothes his expression. "Seems nothing has changed."

I hate it when he masks his emotions like that. I look away from him and pick up my glass only to discover that it's already empty. I drop it back down onto the cardboard coaster a little harder then I intended and find myself eyeing the artfully arranged liquor bottles across from me.

"Nothing has changed?" I think bitterly. "Everything has changed. I've changed, you've changed, the whole fucking world has changed..."

What's the harm in having one little drink? I deserve it after all. Anyone in Malfoy's company for over ten minutes deserves a good stiff drink.

"Hey!" I try and catch the bartender's attention as the place begins to fill with more and more noisy customers. "Can I get a Scotch – neat?"

"Coming right up, sir." He smiles obligingly.

"I thought you didn't drink anymore?" Draco asks pointedly, like he's trying to make me feel guilty, which I do, which in turn makes me angry.

"I don't."

"What are you going to do? Hold it?"

"Mind your own business." I take out some money and plunk it down on the bar as my drink arrives. "Thanks."

Draco shrugs indifferently and removes a pack of fags from the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

"Still smoking?" I observe unnecessarily as he lights up.

"I just thought that while _you're_ indulging..."

I absently swirl my drink, watching the deep tones of amber liquid circle the glass at my command. "I guess we bring out the best in each other."

He actually smiles, albeit a sardonic one, but still a nice change from the repetitious smirks and sneers.

I still haven't touched my drink. I almost don't need to, the fumes alone wafting up to my alcohol sensitive nose are enough to make me tipsy. I sigh heavily and set the glass back down.

"I think we should just forget about lunch."

Draco exhales, the smoke floating upwards to hang in a hazy cloud around the lights above us. "After all this you just want to forget it? How typical."

My hands clench convulsively around my glass. "I just need to know one thing before I go."

"And what pray tell is that?"

I lift my glass in one swift motion and the Scotch burns a fiery trail all the way down my throat. I hide my distaste for the vile stuff and push the empty tumbler away from me. "Have you ever been tested for AIDS?"

Draco slowly lowers his arm, his cigarette coming to rest on the rim of the ashtray. He frowns slightly, his mask lying forgotten by the wayside. "Of course. I have to schedule regular check-ups every time I leave the country on business. They screen for everything."

"And?" I lift my eyes to his face.

"I'm fine – clean." He pauses uncomprehendingly. "What is this all about, Harry?"

I wipe the last vestiges of alcohol from my lips with a clean, white napkin and stand. "It's nothing. Thanks for seeing me."

Draco grabs my arm as I make to turn away. "Don't feed me that bullshit," he hisses.

I look down at where his hand is gripping my arm. "Let go of me."

He withdraws his hand, as if surprised by his outburst, then instantly grows angry once more. "I know you didn't call me out of the blue to reminisce about old times. Just tell me so that I don't feel as if I've wasted my time for nothing."

The Scotch is warm in my stomach and only serves to fuel my anger at his cutting words. "Fine, you really want to know?"

He nods, even as his eyes convey a slight hesitation.

I smile a little triumphantly at that.

"I'm HIV positive."

There. The bomb has been dropped.

Now to watch the ensuing devastation.

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it. His cigarette all the while burning away, forgotten, the dead ash dropping off into the glass tray.

He doesn't look exactly flabbergasted, that would be too undignified for a Malfoy, but a speechless Malfoy is definately worth witnessing.

It crosses my mind that he is the first person I've told.

At that moment a kind looking waiter approaches Draco. "Excuse me, sir, but your table for two is ready in the other room."

I smile, my eyes not leaving Draco's face. "Looks like it'll just be for one," I say. "Goodbye, Draco. It was nice seeing you again."

I turn and exhale shakily as I walk out the door.

Behind me the waiter is still trying to get Draco's attention.


	5. Chasing the Butterfly

Part 5 – Chasing the Butterfly

It is the fourteenth day of my self-prescribed imprisonment, precisely two weeks to the day since my encounter with Draco, and I know I can not stay here another night.

A heat wave has descended upon the city and I feel trapped in its ever suffocating grip. I walk from room to room, like a bird flitting nervously between the branches of a tree. All of these empty days and nights are trying to drive me from my flat. I want to yell, if only to break the agonizing monotony of the silence.

I need to get out – now.

I throw a light shirt over my previously bare chest and bolt from my cage. My body knows where I'm going even before my brain can throw back at me in protest.

The run-down classroom is exactly the same as the last time I saw it; the constant hum of the harsh fluorescent lights and the continuous milling of lost and empty souls, clutching onto their cups of coffee as if it holds together the fading pieces of their dignity.

As I see it, a support group for the dying is like a pro-offered stepladder – it's there to help you up or it becomes the last solid surface you hold on to before dropping of the end.

Again I sit on the opposite side of the circle from the 'do-gooder.' I don't even remember his name, not that it matters, it was just some generic title to match his generic appearance. He spouts the same old bullshit spiel as the last time, about how only_ you_ are in charge of you're destiny, blah, blah, blah...

When he reaches the part about how this group is medicine for the soul I roll my eyes and glance at the clock. Perfect – it's broken.

I don't know why I'm even here...

A muffled snort to my left recaptures my attention. I look over and see to my surprise that a man, a little younger than myself, is sitting beside me and trying his best not to laugh. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth as I raise a brow in interest.

The man instantly feels my gaze upon him and glances at me, looking sheepish and apologetic.

I incline my head towards the do-gooder and roll my eyes.

The man immediately breaks out into a grin and nods, then, to my absolute amazement, pushes back his chair, stands, and proceeds towards the exit. Ryan (huh...I do remember his name), has stopped talking and is looking more than a little put-out as every eye turns to stare. My daring friend turns in the doorway and looks back at me expectantly, waiting.

It's my move.

I smile and rise to join him. Neither of us bothers to glance back as we depart from the decrepit city building together. This time I know it is the last visit I will ever make to this sorry group of the damned. As we reach the street we are hit with the reminder of the ever-present heat wave, the heavy air causing my clothes to immediately cling to my body.

"So..."

I turn to the young man and watch as he rakes a hand through his thick black hair.

"Do you want to go for a drink?" he asks.

Still on a high from our bold departure, and from experiencing my first true smile in over a month, I suggest we have that drink over at my place. He eagerly agrees.

We meander slowly along the empty city streets, an easy feeling of compatibility making either conversation or silence quite comfortable. I soon find out that my companions' name is Clinio. He is twenty-four years old, resides in Bristol, and was once engaged to a sweet girl by the name of Teodelina, but broke it off when he just couldn't face living a lie for the rest of his life. Consequently he was ostracized from his family and from his community. He fled to London, hoping to attend University here.

"What are you planning to study?" I ask, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck as we near my flat.

"Politics."

I nod interestedly and then proceed to tell him everything about myself, well, everything that I'm willing to share with a Muggle about the life of one Harry James Potter – which isn't much. Although I have cut all ties to the wizarding world, I still feel protective of it and would never wish to expose it on any account.

I unlock my front door and apologize for the mess before leading him inside.

"How old are you?" Clinio asks without preamble.

"I turned thirty a fortnight ago."

"Hijo de puta," he replies in surprise. "You don't look that old, hombre."

"Thanks." I smile wryly. "What do you want to drink?" I pull open my fridge and peer through its meagre supplies. "I don't have much."

"Got any Tequila?"

I raise my head and look at him over the top of the door. "Alcohol?"

Clinio leans back against the kitchen counter, his thumbs hooked into the back pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, why not?"

"It's just – haven't you spoken to a doctor yet?" I ask, wondering if the boy was completely unaware of the everyday dangers for HIV positive patients.

Clinio smiles and walks towards me, predatory like. "Just forget about the drink, amante. You haven't shown me the rest of your place yet, how about a tour?" He kicks the fridge door shut and leans in towards me.

"Erm..." I automatically take a step back. Even though my body may very well want it, I'm not sure I'm quite ready to start up any sort of physical relationship yet. "The lounge is this way..."

"I'm really only interested in one room." Clinio raises one hand to caress my cheek.

My eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling of another human being's touch. It's been so long, and at least with Clinio I don't have to worry about infecting him. God, it's been so long...

Clinio's lips on my neck jolt me from a seduced haze of bliss, and reality comes crashing down upon me. Deep down I know I'm not ready, especially for something that would most likely turn out to be a one night stand. I _need_ to be in a relationship, I _need_ security, but most of all I just need someone to be there with me through it all. To not only be a lover, or the tawdry title of 'boyfriend,' but to be a life partner in every sense of the word. If I can't have that then I'd rather have nothing. This feels wrong and somehow causes me to feel even lonelier.

"I can't." I pull away and look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, it's just that it's too soon for me."

"Too soon?" Clinio murmurs, unperturbed. "It's okay, Harry."

"No, I mean it." I take another step back and take a hold of his wrist to stop him from touching me further. "I only just found out that I was positive this month and I'm really not interested in a one-night stand."

"But I need you to, hombre," he continues persistently, pleading. "You're my saviour."

"Your what?"

Clinio smiles. "You're the one who is going to set me free."

"From what?" Now I'm glad I stopped this right from the beginning. The sudden change in his tone was strange and unsettling.

"From AIDS."

I frown and silently beg this boy to start making some sense. "What are you talking about, Clinio? How can I set you free from AIDS?"

"Not from AIDS but from the anxiety of getting it."

His words hit me like a slap in the face. "You're not HIV positive?"

He shakes his head, still smiling.

"You're completely clean?"

A nod.

"And you want me to give you...it?"

Another nod.

I feel angry and...and used. "Were you going to tell me?" I demand.

"Of course, amigo."

I don't believe him for a minute. "I want you to leave now."

"Aw, come on-"

"No." I pull him by the wrist towards the door, thankfully he doesn't try to stop me. "You're sick, you need to get help."

Clinio halts in the doorway. "You're so naïve, man. Do you know how many groups there are out there that exist only to spread the goodwill around?"

"Goodwill?" I repeat incredulously. "Are you mad? This isn't something you want. This is a death sentence."

"It's better to get it over with so that you're free to live your life without worrying about it every single second that you're with another man."

"Listen to me, Clinio, you're young, you're healthy, you don't really know what you're saying. You don't want this, trust me. Do you really want to_ die_?"

Clinio smiles again, as if he knows just a little bit more about the workings of the real world, which maybe he does. "It's okay, Harry. I can find someone else."

"Wait." I grab onto his arm as he turns away, the smooth silk of his shirt sliding through my fingers. "Please don't do this. Do you think having AIDS has made my sex life any better? Because honestly it's just the opposite. I'm never in the mood and nobody would be interested in me anyway."

Clinio smiles again, humouring me, patronising me. I half expect him to pat me on the head. "Man, AIDS doesn't make you less desirable, that's all in your mind. You're hot but you don't think anybody wants you because maybe _you_ don't even want you. The disease is in your body, not your soul."

I try to smile, but my mouth isn't quite working right. "You sound like Ryan. I thought you didn't believe in that bullshit?"

This time Clinio settles for patting my shoulder. "I don't believe in other people's theories of health and love, but I do know that we can teach each other a lot about life."

"And you're willing to cut yours short?" I persist.

"Hey, maybe this will force me to live it right." Clinio flashes me one more indulgent smile before turning and walking away.

"Just...just think about it!" I call out lamely.

Clinio raises an arm and waves over his shoulder. Then he is gone.

I slowly close the door and lean my forehead against the rough wood. I suddenly yearn for the wizarding world again; the simplicity of good and evil, black and white, friends and enemies. This man has shaken my perception of this world, shaken my way of thinking, of living, of breathing.

I turn around and slide down to the floor, my back resting against the door and my eyes closed, shutting out this strange reality that I don't understand anymore.

I can't believe there are people out there who are trying acquire the nightmare that I have been living - on purpose. Maybe AIDS isn't holding me back, so what if it is me? But besides these people like Clinio who are out of their minds, who would truly want a positive lover? I know the alternative would be far more depressing then staying at home and not putting myself out there.

When I was in the wizarding world people would form opinions of me before they'd even met me just because of who I am. It's the same with this - people will either distance themselves or become sickeningly sympathetic. There's no in between, no middle ground on which I can stand and be happy about who I am.

Even Ron and Hermione eventually got sick of me, of constantly being plagued by the problems that would crop up due to me and my fucking celebrity. Only Draco seemed to be unfazed by it all, but even he apparently has his limits.

I have come to the conclusion that both worlds are not for me. I can't handle them and they can't handle me, which doesn't really leave me with a hell of a lot.

The hot slide of a single tear is the only reminder that I'm still sitting on this dirty kitchen floor in my empty flat in the newly unfathomable Muggle world. AIDS isn't going to beat me, life is.

I can't think about this anymore, I'm just so fucking tired of it all...


	6. From A to ZT

Part 6 – From A to ZT

People say that only once you've hit rock bottom can you then start putting the pieces of your life back together again, that it can't get any worse. Well, I've hit rock bottom and have been renting a space there for the last two months.

Today I've decided to pay a little visit to my doctor, and he is understandably upset with me. I've lost weight, I've lost sleep, I've lost energy, happiness, the will to get out of bed in the morning...

This is turning out to be quite an expensive little trip to the hospital. My doctor is rambling on and on, creating a list of medications that I have to buy, and I can only stare dully back at him as he uses medical terms and jargon way beyond my comprehension, especially when I have little understanding of Muggle medicine to begin with.

I wonder if doctors can tell when their patients don't understand a fucking word they're saying?

'_...is my recommendation for combination treatment. Azidothymidine mixed with 3TC, or lamivudine, can be quite effective. Or even D4T. These are nucleoside analogues that will interfere with the conversion process of the genetic RNA material to match your cell material...'_

Why is it I just sit here nodding intelligently and throwing in the occasional 'hmm' or 'right' for good measure, when in reality I feel like a complete idiot?

'_...a complete blood count, along with a WBC and RBC, and hemoglobin for your fatigue. We may need to advance to electrolyte balance checks and creatinine phosphokinose. Don't forget your T4 count, I must remind you...'_

And the more I try not to give myself away the more I can't stop thinking about how utterly incompetent I am, and the more I don't hear a word the man is saying!

'_...international units of vitamin A, fifty milligrams of vitamins B2 and B6, one milligram of folic acid, fifty micrograms each of chromium, selenium, and molybdenum. Also, ten to fifteen milligrams of iron. B12 injections three times a week and five hundred milligrams of N-acetyl cysteine three or four times a day...'_

I am caught in a vicious cycle of true stupidity and faux intellect.

"Do you understand, Mr Potter?"

"Yes. Completely." Smile easily and nod.

"Good." Pleased smile in return.

And the cycle begins again.

"You're a lucky man, Mr Potter," he says with a smile.

Lucky?

"Your viral load is low and your T4 is in pretty good shape. The new approach to HIV therapy is to hit hard but wait longer. Once you find that these medications are beginning to work, you can slow down and hold off on them for awhile, mainly using simple vitamins and supplements to support your daily diet."

I nod and try to look as if I'm pleased by the news that I now have to take expensive medication on a daily basis.

"Now, Mr Potter." My doctor looks up from the manila folder in his hands, which is my medical record, already beginning to grow. "Have you been experiencing any symptoms of swollen lymph nodes?"

"No."

I wonder what they do with people's medical records after they've died?

"Night sweats?"

"No."

Do they toss out the papers and recycle the folder for a new-born baby? The new life that begins as another fades away?

"Fever?"

"No."

My doctor slaps the folder shut and smiles.

I wonder who had my folder before me? What did they die from?

"So it's mainly just fatigue and a bit of weight loss, then?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." I nod, still staring at my folder, trying to pick up any sense of a previous patient's file. Life – contained between the flimsy covers of cheap paper. Maybe the human race should be buried with their medical records. Your health is your life after all, it would be like being buried with your own personal biographical novel – the accumulation of life's little worries and set-backs. A trail of evidence that leads up to the eventual cause of death. It's like a mystery novel - see if you can guess the ending before you reach the final chapter.

Although in my case, it will not be any great mystery.

"That's fairly normal."

I blink and refocus on my doctor again.

"I suggest you try to maintain a regular eating schedule even if you're not hungry. Your body needs fuel. I would also like to see some activity on your part, not anything to strenuous at first, but try and get into an exercise routine: swimming, yoga, football, jogging, whatever – just some type of physical activity to keep your body fit. As for the fatigue, that will pass as the shock wears away and you are able to adjust and sleep through the night once more."

I nod but inside I'm scowling. He has no idea what he's talking about. The shock will _never_ wear away. I've been handed a death sentence and he expects me to simply get used to that fact?

"I would like to give you something before you leave, Mr Potter."

I frown slightly as my doctor swivels on his stool, his white lab coat wrinkling around his waist as he reaches for something on the counter. He hands over a plain blue book.

"What is it?" I ask, looking the cover over for any indication of what's inside.

"It's a journal."

"A journal?" I open it up and, true enough, it's full of blank white paper. "What for?"

"I suggest to all my HIV patients that they indulge in a little self-expression. In your case, I decided that you might need a little push in that direction and so I took the liberty of giving you one myself. In the beginning, the idea of the journals were for the patients to record their daily health, medications, and moods, but now – I encourage any sort of writing. Short stories, poetry, anything. Will you give it a go, Mr Potter?"

"Sure, why not?" I tuck the blue journal under my arm and doubt that it will ever see the light of day again after I toss it to the back of my closet.

"Good, good. Any other questions or concerns?"

"No."

"Excellent." He beams. "Just take your prescription to the pharmacy on your way out."

"Thank you," I reply stiffly, taking the long sheet of paper covered in illegible doctors' handwriting.

I leave the hospital as quickly as I can, a heavy paper bag full of prescription drugs banging against my leg. I'm tired of thinking about this, I just want to be home.

I line the pill bottles in a row on the shelf in the loo, like a line of soldiers preparing to march into battle, fighting the war that is raging inside my body. There is no peace treaty or cease-fire to be agreed upon, I can not bargain with this disease.

This is my life now; an endless line-up of doctor visits and medication, as I sink further and further with no chance of clawing my way out again.

I stare at the shiny plastic bottles without blinking. My vision begins to blur around the edges, my eyes stinging as the colours melt together and the crisp white labels with my name stamped across them are becoming illegible, the black type fading away into nothingness.

I blink and it all comes into focus once more. The brutal clarity of reality.

I lean over the sink and stare at my reflection, trying to see if the person I used to be is still in there...somewhere.

Where is the boy who once possessed so much faith and trust? Who never questioned his purpose in life. Who would never, under any circumstance, give up and accept defeat.

Does the Boy-Who-Lived still exist somewhere deep down inside me? Is his voice being smothered as he tries to scream at the man I have become?

And what _have _I become?

I search those green eyes staring back at me, desperate to find a glimmer or spark of a younger, better me. But I can't seem to see past the surface. It seems the light has finally burned out, leaving me with more questions than answers. The spirit has long since departed and the body is simply waiting for the end

I remove my glasses and set them down on the rim of the sink.

My gaze unconsciously slides back to my army of medication. They stand neatly in place – awaiting their orders...

I swallow the cavalcade of pills with remarkable ease. Like a child in a candy shop, I snatch handfuls out of each cheerful bottle until I've sampled them all, and what remains is considerably less than what I started with.

The bottle of Scotch I bought myself for my twenty-ninth birthday is still sitting beneath a layer of dust in the far recesses of my kitchen cupboards – unopened. I snatch it from the shadows and press it to my chest, like a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver. Only in this case, the liquor bottle is the ocean and I'm about to relinquish the life-preserver so that I can sink into the unknown depths beyond.

I down as much as I possibly can, then abandon the bottle and lie on my settee to wait.

I stare up at the ceiling, my hands carefully folded over my stomach as I listen to the melodic chime of the clock. It's six o'clock. Shouldn't be too long now.

As I lie in wait all my thoughts seem to start with the same two words: 'I wish.'

I wish it didn't have to end this way.

I wish I had died during the war when those bastards took Andrew away from me.

I wish Draco and I had made another go of it.

I wish I'd used protection.

I wish I didn't have AIDS.

All those 'I wish's could be replaced with 'what if's.

I hate 'what if's, I hate questioning the past. The 'what if' syndrome is definitely an exercise in keeping your sanity. You can't win a game that has no end, that only goes in circles, round and round your head until you end up...well, exactly at the point I am -

Alone and dying.

What a miserably wretched thought. I have nothing to feel ashamed about, I'm only speeding up the process a few years, that's all.

I'm thankful now that I've lost touch with the wizarding world, no one will know that I've died, or how, or why. Most people would find that statement pretty melancholy, but I'm glad that I can't cause any more bother in the magical world.

I wonder how long it will take before someone finds me? I guess I should have thought of that before-hand...

Two hours later that peaceful passing away that I had envisioned is nothing but a distant memory. This is not like the movies, this is painful – incredibly, incredibly painful.

My stomach is convulsing and I'm down on the carpet on all fours, choking up blood and retching on and on until I feel as if my organs will be coming up next. My entire body is trembling and I'm sweating profusely. I collapse onto my side with a low moan and close my eyes.

I've never been so scared in all my life.

That's when I hear it. That voice – that blessedly familiar, but not forgotten voice – is speaking to me. That part of me hasn't died! The Boy-Who-Lived is still living! And he's telling me to get my sorry arse over to the phone and call for help.

I drag myself to the kitchen.

The dial tone is humming in my ear as I pause with one hand over the number keys. I don't want a bunch of strangers handling me, I want someone familiar, I want...no, _need_ a friend at my side to help me through this. I don't want to be alone anymore.

There's ringing on the other end and I slump to the floor, the phone cradled to my chest. I dazedly wonder at the fact that I'm still conscious.

"Hello?"

I drop the receiver to the floor with a clatter then immediately snatch it back to my ear again, breathing heavily as I try to ignore the stabbing pain in my stomach.

"Hello?" He repeats impatiently.

"Draco...I need your help..."


	7. Dream Interlude

  
Interlude - Roses Are Red

It is my funeral.

Sparse gatherings of people are standing around my coffin as it is lowered into the ground. It is the sombre portrait out of every depressingly bleak funeral scene you see in the movies; from the people all in black, right down to the ominous falling rain.

People often relate their most emotional experiences in life to the scenes they see in films, and I have to wonder why. Is it so that they can relegate the pain to a more familiar tangible and not explore their own feelings, whatever they might be? When did this change? What did people do before the cinema came along and warped our perceptions and altered our memories to trigger images that aren't real to coincide with what _is_ real?

I am beginning to wonder if the human race even remembers what emotions truly are anymore.

My view of the funeral is that of the camera loaded onto the floating platform of the crane far above. I effortlessly zoom in for the coveted close-up.

The rain is causing the faces of the mourners to blur, the black and white paint of a Monet running down the canvas. There is a minister present, complete with white collar and bible – yet, I am not in any way religious. However, this is a movie and the scene requires the token presence of a minister to add atmosphere to the funeral, a pathetic attempt to pull commercialized tears from the watching audience.

The minister's mouth is moving but there is no sound. Even the rain is silent. One by one, the faceless mourners step forward and toss red roses onto the coffin. The settled casket below is a glaringly bright white, adorned with a twisting vine of shiny gold that snakes its way around the edges and coils about the heavy brass handles. It's gaudy in its opulence.

The only vivid colour present is the red of the roses as they fall in slow motion and land softly on the smooth, curved lid of the coffin, a stark contrast to the world around which is without colour. As soon as the flowers leave the hand of each mourner, their face flashes into clarity for one brief second before fading back into that creepy visage of running paint.

Suddenly, I am there – _physically_ there. I approach the grave with deliberately methodical steps, a single white rose clutched in my hand.

Only the minister now remains as I step up to the edge of the grave and look down. The minister's mouth is no longer moving; he is still and silent as he watches, hugging his precious bible to his chest. I look down and see that the top end of the coffin is open and I distinctly feel a sudden shock run through my body.

Andrew is lying inside, looking as peaceful as he did that day long ago when he died in my arms.

The scenery around me is now melting away, like a chalk drawing left out in the rain.

I stare down at Andrew's face. I am running out of time. I have so many things that I want to say, and yet, there's something preventing me from speaking.

I look down and notice that the thorns on the stem of my rose are digging into my skin, piercing the flesh. Blood flows freely from my fingers and runs down the delicate stem. Slowly the pristine petals are stained dark crimson, poisoned with blood.

I toss the rose onto the coffin and watch as it falls, crimson drops splattering onto the white surface as it lands.

Andrew opens his eyes and reaches out for the blood-stained flower.

I want to tell him to not take it, I want to scream and yell. I want to warn him.

But my screams are silent and can not reach his ears.

Andrew smiles serenely and holds the rose to his cheek, reverently stroking his skin with my cursed gift, slowly smudging more and more blood across his pale skin - back and forth, back and forth…

My hand continues to drip blood, the tiny droplets of life falling onto Andrew's face, onto his forehead, the bright liquid slowly forming into the shape of a bolt of lightning. Andrew's face begins to disappear, just as the others had. A tear falls from his eye as he is swept up into the swirling mass of black and white paint. The portrait is fading, once again leaving the canvas blank.

All I can think about is that lightning bolt on Andrew's forehead, created from _my_ blood. I start to scream as I too begin to fade away.

The scene is finished and the director has called 'cut.' The movie is over.

I scream, on and on...

Even when the cameras stop rolling and the lights have long since burned themselves out, I scream…

Then there is nothing.

I open my eyes.


	8. Finding Hope

Part 8 - Finding Hope

'Harry…Harry…'

Floating on the edge of consciousness is such a beautiful collection of words, if you really think about it. It's peaceful and blissful, and all other manner of calm inducing synonyms. People who drag themselves back to reality from this nirvana do not do it willingly, I can attest to that myself. It's a feeling akin to that of being born; dragged kicking and screaming from warmth, the safety of your cocoon falling away and the sudden shock of remembering that you have a physical body that hurts and feels pain comes rushing back. As well as a mind full of memories that also hurt and cause pain.

'…Harry…'

I am almost there. The lights behind closed eyelids are beginning to stir and brighten. Sound is returning; voices, a strange whirring noise, the squeak of shoes. The smell of disinfectant causes my nose to wrinkle. And the pain is there as well, to welcome me back – taunting me, criticizing me for being stupid and weak.

'Wake up, Harry.'

Like so many other times in my life, I greatly resent the sound of my own name.

I shift slightly on my hospital bed – yes, I know those sounds and smells well – and begin the lengthy process of opening my eyes. The first face I see is that of my doctor.

'Welcome back, Mr Potter,' he says with a smile.

I blink slowly and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder why he is smiling in a situation like this. Does he always smile when his patients attempt suicide? Or maybe that's it – he smiles when they only get so far as the attempt.

'Hi,' I answer wryly, only my voice is hoarse and strained.

He sits on the white plastic chair at my bedside, drawing it close. 'How are you feeling?'

'Not too bad, considering.' I glance around for my glasses, wanting to see the world in focus.

'Glad to hear it.' He follows my wandering gaze. 'Is there something you're looking for, Harry?'

'Glasses.'

He smiles again and pulls the familiar black frames from his lab coat.

'Thanks.' I slip them into place, and then take them off once more under the pretense of cleaning them on the edge of the bed sheet, trying to put off the inevitable.

'Are you going to tell me about it?' he asks, watching me.

Shit.

'Tell you about what?' I reply, still rubbing the stiff cloth over the lenses of my glasses, cleaning them of imaginary dust.

He levels me with a look.

I sigh. 'What do you want to know? I'm sure you can guess why I did it, moreover, I'm pretty damn sure that you know _how_ I did it. Maybe you could answer _me_ a few questions.'

'Alright,' he replies calmly, nodding his graying head. 'What do you wish to know?'

Satisfied with managing to steer the conversation in a new direction, I settle my glasses back onto my nose and clasp my hands over my stomach, which feels bruised and sore to the touch.

'Am I going to be okay?'

'That depends.'

'On what?'

'You.'

I push down a wave of annoyance. I hate these rubbish doctor answers, the ones that twist your words around and answer every question with a question.

'I'm not going to try to off myself again, if that's what you mean.'

The good doctor sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. 'Glad to hear it.'

I fidget under his gaze, dropping my eyes from his. 'Where's Draco?' I ask, wanting to change the subject.

'I thought you wanted to know about your health.'

'So tell me,' I snap. 'Without all the added psychologist shite.'

He smiles again and I almost –_ almost _– roll my eyes with exasperation. In moments like these, I find that in a lot of ways my doctor is very much like a certain – somewhat barmy – old headmaster of mine.

'You are going to be just fine. You can go home today, once you feel up to it.'

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I had thought that there would be at least _some_ damage from all that medication and alcohol that I ingested.

'What did you do to me?' I ask, curiously.

'Your friend, did you say his name was Draco?' I nod. 'He brought you here. Myself and a very capable team of doctors pumped your stomach of all the dangerous toxins.'

'It feels sore.' I touch my stomach tentatively overtop of the thin hospital sheet.

'Yes, that will last for a couple of days. I must also advise against any heavy lifting or exercise for the next week or so.'

I nod, knowing full well that I never exercise anymore anyway.

'Would you like me to fetch your friend now? He has already agreed to stay and help you home later.'

'He did?' That doesn't sound like the Malfoy I know, he hates hospitals, especially Muggle ones. 'Yes, please – send him in.'

'Alright, Harry.' He stands with another benign smile and walks noiselessly from the room.

I sit up and adjust the pillows behind my back.

As I sit in wait for Draco, I try to remember what happened right after I telephoned him. Frowning, I recall hearing his voice, and then I remember asking him to help me…then nothing. I don't even remember hearing an ambulance's siren, or the ride to the hospital.

Draco's probably irritated that I called him in the first place, I should probably tell him that I am perfectly capable of making it home on my own, no need for him to hang about on my behalf.

'Potter, why is it that every time we meet you always look like shit?'

I find myself smiling as I look towards the door. Draco is standing there; cool and elegant in this sterile world void of colour.

Like the red of the roses in my dream.

'Only compared with you, Draco,' I return laconically.

He smirks and walks into the room, glancing about as he does, taking in the whirring machinery and the I.V inserted into the back of my hand. He grimaces slightly at the sight.

I swallow and put my other hand overtop to hide the needle. 'Before you say anything, I just wanted to thank you for helping me. I didn't know who else to call.'

He shrugs and remains standing, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably.

'You don't have to stay, Draco,' I continue, watching him. 'I'll be fine getting home on my own.'

His eyes search my face for a moment before he forces himself to sit in the hard plastic chair at my bedside. I can smell fresh cigarette smoke on him.

'I told them that I would take you home,' he says, jerking his head toward the open doorway where various members of the medical staff are walking past.

'I know, and thank you, but you really don't have to. I feel fine.'

He sighs and absently strokes a hand over his chin. His normally beautiful ivory skin looks sickly under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital. His whole appearance looks washed out and tired.

'You aren't fine, Harry,' he finally announces, closing his eyes as he speaks. 'I'm waiting here until you're ready to leave and then I'm taking you home.' Draco opens his eyes and lifts them to my face once more. His tone of voice is stern, leaving no room for refusal.

'Fine, if you like,' I answer stiffly.

Draco stands and walks to the window on the right side of my bed. His back is to me, but I still pick up on the tenseness of his shoulders, catch the telltale sign of running his hand through his hair, which always indicates when he is nervous or upset; two emotions not generally observed in this man.

I sit and wait for him to speak.

'Harry, why-' The pensive blond stops and shakes his head. 'I suppose I don't need to ask that question, do I?'

He sighs. 'But I feel I must.' He turns to face me. 'Why Harry? Why would you do such a thing?'

I frown at him, almost glaring. 'I would've thought that that was blatantly obvious,' I respond peevishly.

Draco looks annoyed. 'Christ, Harry, you live through all that you have, only to try to kill yourself over _this_?'

'_This_?' I snap irritably. '_This_ happens to be a big deal. Come back once _you_ have AIDS and then we'll talk. You won't be able to act so nonchalant then.'

'I'm not saying that having AIDS isn't a big deal, although, to be completely truthful, you don't really have AIDS, Harry - you're HIV positive. There's a difference.'

My eyes flare with rage. 'Thank you, _doctor_,' I reply bitingly. 'I didn't know that.'

'When did you become so acrimonious, Potter?'

'When I was handed a death sentence on a silver platter, _Malfoy_,' I respond, equally as cool. 'Did you ever stop to think that maybe I'm angry_ because _I've lived through so much only to be stopped by something I have no control over?'

Draco opens his mouth then closes it. He begins to pace in agitation, fingers combing through his fine hair every once and awhile.

After a few minutes of this, I sigh, suddenly feeling like a petulant child. 'Why don't you sit down, Draco?' I suggest apologetically. 'I didn't mean to be so…cranky.'

He stops and smiles a little, deciding to take me up on my offer. 'I didn't mean to offend you, Harry,' he explains as he seats himself beside me once more. 'I just wish that you would stop talking about yourself as if you are about to die tomorrow.'

'I could,' I reply, facetiously.

'But you're not,' he says firmly, grey eyes boring into mine.

'I know. I'm not that deluded.' I smile reassuringly, then add, 'But one day…'

'Yes, one day you will die, just like me, just like the rest of the human race. But very far off in the future.'

'Now who's being delusional?'

Draco frowns. 'People with HIV and AIDS can still live long and full lives.'

I can't help but smile. 'Been reading up on it, have we?'

Draco finally breaks into a reluctant grin. 'I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since you told me that day. I must admit, I really didn't know too much about it at the time. I think I've now read every article and book known to man on the subject.'

'I'm flattered.' I laugh in amusement.

Draco shrugs. 'I always like to be well informed of everything. You caught me off-guard that day and I didn't like it. You scared me, Harry,' he admits honestly. 'I knew what you had told me was not good, but I didn't know the particulars of what you were up against.'

I nod in understanding. 'It's like being up against Voldemort again, isn't it? We're not really sure of the capabilities of our enemy, or even when he will eventually strike.'

'Exactly.' Draco nods in agreement. 'Only now, I know that this particular foe can be held off by the simple act of taking care of yourself and of allowing others to help you, as well as allowing yourself to live life to the fullest.'

'Please don't become one of those preachers of life and purity, I don't think I could stand it,' I moan, thinking of Ryan the do-gooder.

'Fuck, no,' Draco exclaims, offended. 'It's your job to act the saint, Potter. I'm just the messenger.'

I'm still laughing as a nurse enters the room and walks to my side with a smile.

'How are you feeling, Mr Potter?' she asks brightly, checking the IV line.

I glance at Draco. 'Much better.'

'Excellent.' She gives me a wide smile then carefully pulls the tape from the back of my hand and draws out the needle.

Draco averts his gaze as I smile at him in amusement. He always hated needles. Killing and torturing people he can do, but ask him to watch a needle being inserted and he squirms.

'I just need you to sign some papers and then you're free to leave, Mr Potter,' she informs me, placing a small, round Elastoplast on the miniscule incision on my skin.

'Thanks.' I smile after her.

'I think she likes you, Harry,' Draco informs me seriously.

I roll my eyes. 'Shut-up. Now, could you please leave the room while I take off this ridiculous paper gown and get dressed?'

'I think I should help you.'

'Get out!' I reach over and smack him on the arm.

'Alright, alright.' Draco backs away, smirking. 'I just thought I would be helpful, but if you're going to react so violently…'

'Just go!" I exclaim in exasperation.

I shake my head in amusement as he turns and exits the room, careful to close the door securely behind him.

The trip back to my flat was a silent one, Draco's silver cabriolet gliding effortlessly through the heavy city traffic. I lead him inside my neglected flat, toss my keys onto the table, and sink into one of the well-worn chairs in the lounge.

I watch as Draco surveys his surroundings with obvious distaste, apparently unwilling to sit on my furniture, as he remains standing in the middle of the room. I would be insulted if it wasn't the truth.

'What happened to all your money?' He asks. 'I refuse to believe that you inhabit this…_place_ of your own volition.'

'So sorry to offend you.' I chuckle. 'But, alas, this is where I have been living while my vast fortune is locked away, collecting dust in Gringotts.'

Draco raises an elegant brow, clearly wondering how someone can speak so casually of wasted money.

'I am thinking of moving, though,' I add thoughtfully, picking at a loose thread on my jumper. 'This flat, while serving its purpose for a few years, now holds some rather unpleasant memories.'

'I think that's a good idea, Harry.' Draco agrees, eyeing my settee and trying to decide whether or not to actually sit upon it.

I roll my eyes skyward. 'Oh, for Merlin's sake, Draco! Just sit down already, it's not diseased.'

I notice him stiffen at my words. I probably shouldn't have used the word 'diseased.'

'I didn't mean to-' he starts contritely.

'No, don't.' I look up at him and smile dismissively. 'I didn't mean it like that either. I know you're just apprehensive about my cleaning ability, rather than…well, catching something from my possessions.'

Draco smiles in relief and finally ventures to sit down, perhaps merely to prove the honesty of his words.

'Where are you looking to move?'

'I'm not really sure, yet.' I shrug, my eyes drifting to my phone, which is still laying on the floor of the kitchen. Yes, I definitely need a change of scenery. If only to forget. 'I've moved so many times now, that it just isn't all that exciting anymore.'

'Why do it then?' Draco questions. 'Other than this time, what other reason did you have?'

'There were various reasons,' I answer vaguely. 'My job, people, the past…there were many variables to my choices.'

'I don't mean to sound self-absorbed, but was I a variable?'

'You could say that, yes, but-'

Draco holds up a hand to stem my explanation. 'You don't have to explain, I understand completely. I was there, too, remember?' he adds quietly.

I hold his gaze for a moment, then drop my eyes. 'It was for the best, Dray.'

Draco leans forward in his seat. 'I agree, we were messed up back then, but what about now? Now that the past is in the past.'

'Draco…' I say sadly.

'Just hear me out, Harry,' he says in earnest. 'Alright?'

I nod my acquiescence.

He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands together over his knees. 'When we got together after the war, it was a mistake, I know that now. We both rushed into things, and I knew deep down that you weren't ready yet, but at twenty years old I was willing to overlook that. I wanted you too much to think about the possible consequences. I refused to believe that I was just some rebound for you, and even if you didn't mean to see me that way, I ultimately was. It was neither of us our fault, we were young and naïve. Wouldn't you agree?'

'Yes,' I say weakly, memories I've long since buried rising to the surface and taking hold.

'Wouldn't you also agree that between the petty squabbles and fights, we had a good time? There were moments then that I wished would never end.'

'And other times you wanted to strangle me,' I add, a weak attempt at levity.

'Yes, that idea did pass through my mind every time your hands were around my _own_ neck.' He smiles wryly.

'What makes you think anything has changed?' I venture, the question bittersweet on my tongue.

'What's different is that you and I have both put a lot time and space between us for the last nine years. We've grown.'

'We've changed as well, Draco. What makes you think you want us back in that same position again?'

'Because it won't be the same this time. Learn from your mistakes, right?'

'Yes, as well as learn to accept it when a relationship just isn't meant to be.'

'Harry.' Draco sighs and shifts closer, his knee brushing mine. 'If you're not in a relationship right now, then why not give it a chance?'

'It's not just that, Draco.' I move my knee away. 'There are so many other things to consider here, like how you're still a part of the wizarding world and I'm not. You have a big important business to run and I'm unemployed. I'm positive and you're not.'

'All trivial.' Draco brushes off instantly.

'Draco,' I try again in exasperation. 'The so called "good parts" of our previous relationship will no longer be the same. It won't even be a possibility.'

Draco smirks confidently. 'If you're talking about sex, then I beg to differ. Shagging is most _definitely_ a possibility. The only difference is that we'll always have to use a condom.'

'Did you read up on that as well?' I can't help but laugh. 'Are you even listening to yourself, Draco? This is ridiculous.'

'Why?' he asks seriously.

'Because…because…'

He smiles and leans back, looking very sure of himself – as usual. 'You can't think of a reason because there isn't one.'

There is one. It's there, buried deep down in the pit of my insecurities. Another one of those niggling doubts about how my life may never return to normal – or as normal as my life has ever been at the height of my existence.

'Harry?' Draco notices my distraction. 'What is it?'

'I hate to be a downer, and I'm not saying this to be melodramatic, but…you have to understand that my sex drive is currently at zero. What if it never comes back?'

I can feel that prickle once again in my eyes, trying to force it's way out, but I absolutely refuse to cry. I _won't_.

I take a steadying breath and continue. 'Even the _thought _of having sex right now is unappealing and…it almost makes me cringe.'

Draco moves as if to reach for my hand then stops. 'That's not a good enough reason, Harry,' he says gently. 'You'll have to try harder than that to get rid of me.'

I shake my head mutely, staring down at the floor. 'I'm not lying.'

'I didn't mean to insinuate that you were.'

I raise my eyes to his face once more. 'Why are you pushing this issue? Why now?'

'It's not because you're positive,' he says before the question can even pass through my lips. 'I thought about you a lot, Harry, during those nine years. I always wondered what you were up to, where you were living, who you were dating, what you were eating.' He chuckles a little. 'I always felt bad about how things ended between us, I knew why they did, and there was nothing we could have done to stop it, but I still felt as if things were left unsaid that shouldn't have been. But with you off cavorting about in the muggle world, leaving us wizards high and dry about your whereabouts, I didn't even know where to begin to look for you. Then when you called me out of the blue on you birthday, I hoped…'

'That I was calling to-'

'Precisely.'

'And instead, I inform you that I'm-'

'Right.'

I exhale heavily and close my eyes, leaning my head back against the thinly padded backing of my old chair.

'You don't have to decide right now,' Draco says, watching me.

'Why were you so cold with me when we met?' I ask, eyes still closed.

Draco's brow creases as he frowns. 'When?'

'At the Guinea Grill, on my birthday. You didn't _act_ like someone who missed me all that much.'

I open my eyes and turn my head slightly to look at him.

He actually looks embarrassed as he averts regretful grey eyes. 'Sorry about that. I was a little…bitter, I guess you could say. You were the one to finally end our relationship, then you disappeared without another word, and as soon as I heard your voice, it all just came flooding back. I was so sure you wanted to meet with me to get back together, that I was daft enough to want to…well, punish you, for lack of a better word.'

'You _were_ unusually snarky.' I smile in remembrance. 'I just thought that you had gotten worse with age.'

Draco lifts his head to smile back at me.

I turn my head in surprise as the doorbell suddenly chimes from the front room.

'Who could that be?' I wonder, getting to my feet.

Draco stands and catches my arm before I can walk away.

'Harry, I called someone to tell them that you were in the hospital.'

'Who?' I turn away curiously and try to peer around the corner towards the door.

'I'm going to leave now,' Draco continues, ignoring my query. 'Please think about what I've said, and you can ring me at any time. I'll leave the number for my mobile in case I'm not at home.'

'Draco, you don't have to go…' I say, returning my gaze to his face, only a hairsbreadth away.

He smiles and releases my arm. 'Yes, I do. You have a nice visit and I'll talk to you soon.'

I follow him as he walks towards the front door. He turns and gently touches a finger to my cheek.

'Goodbye, Harry. Take care of yourself. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call.'

My cheek tingles with the tender caress of his finger.

I find myself leaning forward a little. I want him to kiss me. I want to be reminded of how it feels to have someone touch their lips to mine, the warmth, the pleasure, that swelling of the heart. I want to feel. I want him to _make_ me feel.

I'm tired of the same myriad of emotions that I have been stuck in for so long. I don't want to feel pain and sorrow, or self-pity, or depression, or anything that pushes me to the dangerous state of mind that I was in earlier today.

I've been cold for so long, I've forgotten what it feels like to stand in the warmth of the sun.

My eyes flutter closed as that wonderful warmth comes ever closer, answering my silent plea.

I jump when there is a loud knocking on the door behind us.

Draco reluctantly takes a step away from me. 'Goodbye, Harry.'

'Bye,' I say, feeling disappointed. I watch as he turns and opens the door.

'You have horrible timing, Granger.'

Hermione?

My eyes widen as the one and only Hermione Granger impatiently pushes Draco aside and searches the dark entryway for something. Her eyes light on me and her face breaks into a large smile.

My arms are suddenly full of female exuberance as she throws herself at me. I laugh and my eyes sting a little as I hold on tightly.

Over her shoulder, I watch as Draco walks towards his car. He turns and raises a brow in silent question.

I smile reassuringly and mouth - 'thank you.'

He nods in relief and waves as he climbs into his car.

I close the door, ready to focus on an old friend that I haven't seen in years. Ready for the questions and accusations and guilt inducing conversation that she most certainly has in store for me.

And I find I'm actually looking forward to it.


	9. A Trio Once More

_Part 9 – A Trio Once More_

Hermione eyes me over her perfunctory cup of tea, a healthy distance between us, just as in life. The idle chit-chat of strangers becomes our first conversation in years. I'm not ready for the harder questions, the accusations, just yet. Nor is she.

I notice a small, silver cross hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.

In the later years of my life, I have found that symbols of religion cause me to feel uncomfortable, and even angry. I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I feel the need to argue over the notion of an all powerful god controlling our lives, the same so-called god that has let me down in almost every aspect of my life since birth.

I just don't like the thought of people wasting so much time on something that, in the end, won't change a thing when they take that final breath. There is no heaven and there is no hell – there's just existing. Life is life. Death is death. If there was something beyond that, then they wouldn't call it your final moments. If there was a heaven, then why mourn over the deceased. Shouldn't they be happy that the person has moved on to a happier plane of existence?

'What's with the necklace?' I ask bluntly. Perhaps I could have phrased it better, but – there it is.

Hermione blinks in surprise, I'd obviously interrupted her in the midst of talking while my mind had been elsewhere. She sets down her cup and fingers the silver cross against her sternum.

'It's a cross, Harry.'

'I know what it is,' I reply evenly. 'What I meant was, why?'

She tilts her head, fingers still absently toying with the shiny object. 'It gives me comfort.'

'What does, exactly?'

'Why are you being like this?' She asks, a tiny crease between her brows.

I shrug and look away. 'Just curious as to how such a level-headed witch suddenly turns evangelist.'

Hermione picks up her cup once more and lightly blows on the steaming liquid. 'Maybe I like to think that my patient's lives do not rest solely in my hands. Harry, the things I've seen in the hospital… It truly makes a person believe in miracles.'

'What about when they die?'

'Then that is what is supposed to happen,' she answers matter-of-factly.

I laugh and shake my head in disbelief. 'Don't feed me that "it was destined to happen" shite, Hermione. I thought that you of all people would scoff at an ideology so similar to that of Divination.'

'I don't believe that a person is helpless to alter their future by the choices they make, but I do think that there are things in this life that there simply is no other explanation for.'

'Give me an example,' I demand, leaning forward, elbows resting on my knees and hands clasped together.

'Come wander around the emergency room for a couple of days and you will have more than enough examples to satisfy even _your _curiousity.'

'Maybe it's magic.'

'Maybe that's the same thing.'

'You're avoiding the question.'

'So are you.'

I sit back in my chair, assuming a defensive posture, my tea sitting untouched on the table. 'Ask away.'

'Alright.' She tucks one leg up and rests her chin on her knee, watching me closely. 'When did you find out?'

'Three months ago.'

She slowly raises her head in shock. 'Oh, Harry…I…I didn't know. I had thought you'd known for years.'

I shrug, avoiding her gaze as my fingers tap a restless beat on the scratched table top, causing little ripples to disturb the liquid smooth surface of my tea.

'I'm sorry.'

'What for?'

She puts her leg down and leans across the table towards me. 'For not being there for you.'

I laugh bitterly. 'That's my fault, not yours. Did you even know where I was?'

'No,' she answers truthfully. 'But I could've made something of an effort to locate you. I - we _all_ - figured that you didn't want to be found.'

'I didn't.'

'Harry…' I look up and see my face reflected back in the glassy surface of her brown eyes. 'If Malfoy hadn't told me…'

I reach out and clasp her hand in mine, because that's what one is expected to do in situations like these. The dying comforting the healthy.

'How did he know where to find you?' I ask, retracting my hand and standing to fetch her some tissue.

'Thanks. Um, he knew where I worked from when he was in the hospital about a year ago.'

'Oh yeah? What was he in for?'

'Car accident.'

'Car accident? I'm surprised he wasn't taken to a muggle hospital for that.'

'He was.'

I raise my brows in surprise. 'You work in a muggle hospital? I didn't know.'

Hermione laughs and fiddles with the damp tissue balled in her fist. 'There's probably a lot you don't know, Harry. The wizarding world is…quite different from when you left.'

'You mean it can actually exist without me?'

She laughs again, a pleasant tinkly sound that reminds me of our days at Hogwarts.

'Yes, strangely enough, it can. People still ask about you once and awhile, wondering where you went, if you're still alive. But you'll be happy to know that you've now been relegated to the Quibbler and out of the respectable papers altogether.'

'I wouldn't really call the Daily Prophet a respectable source of news.'

'It is now. It was taken over and completely overhauled. I should've brought you a copy.'

'So you still keep up with the wizarding news, then?'

'Of course. I live in a little wizarding village in the southeast, near Kent.'

'Alone?'

Hermione smiles secretly at me over the rim of her teacup, eyes sparkling.

'Okay, who is he?' I smile.

'No one you know,' she replies.

'Muggle?'

'Yes.'

I nod and feel a little of our old camaraderie return.

'What about you, Harry? Anyone special in your life?' She waits a beat, then, 'I thought I saw something between you and Malfoy earlier.'

I run a hand through my hair with a tiny smile, admiring her perception. 'No, there's no one in my life. And yes, there is something between Draco and I. Not really sure what, but…it's there.'

'Waiting to be explored?'

I nod thoughtfully. 'Yeah, I think so.'

Hermione smiles. 'I'm so glad, Harry. I always thought you complimented eachother well.'

'We also bickered like no other couple in history,' I say wryly.

'Yes, I remember. Quite vividly.' She chuckles.

'I owe him my life,' I say, suddenly turning serious.

Hermione sobers, and it's her turn to clasp my hand in comfort. 'Thank God he was there.'

I quickly take my hand away. 'There is no god.'

She looks down at her empty hand, slowly curling her fingers back in over thin air. 'Does this have something to do with…your disease?'

'Not really.' I sigh, feeling guilty for ruining the moment. 'I think I've always felt this way. My life has made a skeptic out of me, I'm afraid. And if there is a god, then I don't particularly care to worship him for giving me a life that has been total crap.'

Hermione sits back in her chair and picks up her cup. The tea must be cold by now, but I think she just wants something to hold.

'Let's talk about something else,' I suggest, attempting a smile. 'It's been a heavy afternoon; what with talking about religion, suicide, and AIDS.'

Hermione's easy smile returns. 'You're right. What haven't we covered yet?'

'How about Ron?' I ask, having the sudden desire to know everything about him and his life, which for the first time doesn't include me. 'What's he doing now?'

Hermione's grin widens as she sets her cold tea down. 'He's married, can you believe it?'

'What?' I exclaim in amusement. 'To who?'

'A witch named Rose McKibben. She's quite pretty, and very sweet.'

I smile, happy for my old friend. 'Any kids yet?'

'Not yet, but she is currently pregnant with twins.'

'Twins? Poor Ron. I hope for his sake that they're not anything like Fred and George.'

'Me, too.' Hermione chuckles. 'But they're definitely going to carry on one Weasley tradition; Rose is Scottish and has very long, and very _red_, hair.'

I grin as I carry our dishes into the kitchen.

'You should call him.'

I turn around and lean back against the counter. 'Yeah, I should. Have you told him anything?'

Hermione shakes her head. 'No. I thought I would leave that up to you.'

'Thanks,' I say in mock appreciation.

'He should know, Harry.'

I walk back over to the table and slump into my chair. 'Yeah, I know.'

'You could call him now,' she suggests slyly.

I stare at her a moment. 'Hand me the phone.'

Hermione smirks and retrieves the phone from my counter as I try to gather my thoughts together - and just a little courage.

'What's the number?' I ask, staring down at the white number keys.

'Oh wait,' Hermione says abruptly. 'I forgot, he's probably at work right now.'

I almost sigh with relief as I replace the phone back in its cradle.

'We could go surprise him.'

I close my eyes briefly as I slowly take my hand from the phone. 'Does he work in the wizarding world?'

'Yes.'

I open my eyes and glance down at the hospital bracelet still snapped to my thin wrist.

'Fine. Let's go.'

Hermione grabs my hand as we approach the secret entrance to the Ministry of Magic, my feet beginning to drag as the old telephone box looms into view.

'It's okay, Harry. It's Saturday, not many people will be in.'

All I can do is swallow and nod as we step into the broken-down, red booth. Hermione keeps a hold of my hand as she dials in the required code (62442), then requests passes for the both of us.

I close my eyes as my heart drops along with the sudden downward descent of the magical lift.

Hermione and I enter the Atrium, and I am relieved to see that she is right; there are only a few mandatory workers going about their business and not paying any attention to the two new visitors.

Hermione finally releases my hand as she speaks to the man sitting at the front desk, asking if he could please send a Mr Ron Weasley down to see some old friends.

I give my head a little shake, allowing my dark fringe to settle over my forehead, thus obscuring my instantly recognizable scar. I look around the Atrium, remembering all the times I had come and gone from this place during the war. My days as an Auror seem so very long ago…

'Harry?'

I turn as Hermione grasps my forearm and leads my away from the desk, towards the centre of the large room. 'Are you alright?'

'Yeah,' I assure her with a shaky smile. 'I was just…remembering.'

'Good things or bad?'

'I don't think one comes without the other,' I reply dryly.

Hermione bites her bottom lip in hesitation. 'Were you…thinking about Andrew?' she asks tentatively.

'Don't,' I say sharply.

'I'm sorry,' she immediately apologizes, looking as if she would like to take a hold of my hand again.

I cross my arms over my chest and look around the Atrium with artificial interest. My eyes keep flicking back to the golden lifts at the far end, waiting for my once best friend to appear.

This was the last stop on my agenda before I left the wizarding world eight years ago. I remember traveling down those very lifts after giving in my resignation to Amelia Bones - the then head of the Magical Law Enforcement office – and returning my Ministry pass and official Auror robes. I remember people calling out friendly hello's as I passed, not knowing that they would soon be reading about my sudden disappearance in the papers in the weeks to follow.

I remember leaving notes to my friends, trying to explain myself and my decisions, knowing that they would never truly understand, and would most likely end up hating me.

I never left an explanation for Draco. I was angry at the time, and so jaded. We had officially broken up only three days before my departure and I always wondered if he was hurt by it. I think I secretly hoped he was for a time. Now I only hope that he understood, and that he was okay with it.

I wonder if we have grown enough to endeavour another attempt at something I had thought was not possible. Is the idea of "us" just a fruitless hope? A sad attempt at recapturing our youth and trying to hold onto a quickly disappearing yesterday? If we didn't work together then, who's to say we'll work now?

'Harry, there he is!'

I snap out of my swirling thoughts and look up. Ron has just stepped from one of the lifts, raising his hand in greeting and grinning. Hermione smiles back and waves with enthusiasm.

Ron suddenly stops dead, obviously catching sight of me by Hermione's side. I can see his mouth silently forming the word "Harry" from across the room.

Hermione grabs me by the arm and hauls me towards the stunned red-head.

'Harry…' Ron looks as though he can't quite believe I'm real.

'Hullo,' I say, smiling weakly.

Hermione rolls her eyes. 'Oh for heaven's sake, just hug already!'

I laugh a little, feeling awkward.

Ron smiles sheepishly and steps forward, arms held out questioningly.

That's all it takes and I've thrown myself into his embrace, holding on for dear life. We both laugh, and I feel as though I'll never stop. I open my eyes and Hermione is impatiently dashing tears from her cheeks. I hold out an arm and beckon to her. Soon the three of us are tangled together amidst tears and laughter. This is a reunion that has been a long time coming.

We must look ridiculous; standing there in the middle of the Ministry of Magic, laughing and crying like silly children, or like the completely mad adults that we are.

'Let's go for a walk,' Ron suggests, pulling back with a grin.

'Yeah, alright.' I smile back at him as the three of us walk towards the exit.

We travel in a blissful state of happiness all the way to Regent's Park, in the northwest of London. Chatting about trivial things, and leaving the important "where the bloody hell have you been?" questions until later.

The park is quite peaceful today, the overcast sky and damp weather keeping most visitors away. I can't believe it's almost November.

We happen upon a footbridge with a large pond on the right and a small waterfall on the left, and we silently agree to stop here. I hop up on the thick, wooden railing and sit with my hands braced on either side of me, watching the waterfall trickle and splash.

'Okay,' I start, before either of them can speak. 'I've been living in muggle London for eight years. I've been through three different jobs since leaving the wizarding world, none of which are worth mentioning. As I'm sure you're well aware, I did continue to work at the welfare centre for a year after leaving my job as an Auror, but decided that I needed to make a clean break of it, and quit. I've had a few relationships since, also none of which are worth mentioning. I am now unemployed and, quite frankly, my life has been…well, dreadful these past few years. And even more so in the past three months.'

Okay, this is it.

I turn to Ron and take a deep breath, vaguely aware that Hermione has put her hand over mine in silent empathy. This time it doesn't bother me.

'Ron, I'm HIV positive.'

'What?' he frowns, looking for all the world as though I've just turned his life upside down.

All I can do is nod, confirming his worst suspicions.

'How…?'

'I'm sure you don't want the details,' I reply, feeling so guilty and ashamed of what my past actions had been. Of admitting my stupidity and lack of judgment to my best friend. 'It was my fault. The guy I was with wasn't clean and we didn't use protection.'

'But surely you didn't know he was infected?' Hermione interjects worriedly.

'Of course not,' I snap. 'I'm not that reckless, nor that desperate.'

'But…what does this mean?' Ron's voice is barely a whisper. 'Are you…going to die?'

I feel so horrible in that moment, to have put that look of fear and misery on my friend's face. 'Eventually,' I admit quietly. 'My doctor told me that life expectancy for people living with HIV is an average of twelve to fifteen years from diagnosis.'

'And you found out, what? Three months ago?'

'Yes.'

Ron walks to the railing and rests his elbows on the surface. He covers his face with his hands and shakes his head as if to deny it all.

'Should I not have told you?' I finally ask, not able to take the silence any more.

He lifts his head, his eyes red-rimmed and wide. 'No, Harry. No, I…I would've wanted to know.'

I hop off the railing and pull Ron into my arms, trying, in my own way, to comfort him. I pretend not to notice the wetness on the side of my neck, seeping into my collar, or the hands clenched so tightly onto my shoulders.

'Thank you,' I whisper.

'For what?' he chokes.

'For not pulling away.'

He only squeezes tighter. 'Never.'

'I'm always afraid people won't want to touch me anymore…'

Hermione comes up behind me and lays her head on my back, her arms sliding around my waist.

I smile and close my eyes. This is one of those moments you remember for the rest of your life. One of those brief snapshots of contentment to later look back on with a fondness that permeates your senses. Every time I hear the gurgle of a water fall, or see a wooden footbridge - I'll remember.

We eventually split apart, and now the three of us sit atop the wooden railing in a line, watching the flowing water.

'So…twins, eh?' I say to Ron, attempting to erase the bleak ambience.

His face breaks out into a grin and he chuckles. 'Yeah. Can you believe my luck?'

'Do you know if they're girls or boys yet?'

'Nah, don't want to know,' Ron says. 'You have to come meet my wife, Rose, Harry. She's heard so much about you, I mean, besides the obvious.'

'I will,' I promise. 'I'd like to meet the woman who has taken on the job of being attached to you for life.'

Hermione laughs as Ron playfully swats me on the arm.

'I'll have you know, I only asked her out three times before she said yes.'

I laugh so hard I'm worried that I'm going to fall backwards into the pond.

'So what's Hermione's bloke like?' I ask after I've recovered.

'Bookish,' he replies instantly.

'Of course.' I wink at Hermione.

'He's a writer,' she explains, rolling her eyes at Ron.

'No handsome doctors at your hospital, then?' I tease.

'Why, are you looking?'

'Hmm…maybe.' I smile, considering. 'What hospital do you work at?'

'St Ann's General. It's in south Tottenham.'

'Well, I might have to drop by.'

'You can if you want.' She giggles. 'But I don't think Draco would be too happy.'

'No.' I chuckle. 'I don't believe he would.'

'What about Malfoy?' Ron asks in confusion.

'Er…' I look to Hermione.

'Oh no…not again.' Ron groans, putting his head in his hands.

I don't think I've laughed this much in years, since before I left the wizarding world anyway, which makes me wonder why I ever did. I know I can't leave it again, not after this. I want to go back. I'm ready to go back.

And tomorrow, I'll be ready for whatever happens between Draco and I.


	10. Revisiting Old Ghosts

**  
Part 10 – Revisiting Old Ghosts**

I have no regrets of having made peace with my former best friends, but for the past two days I have been plagued with a feeling of unfinished business hovering around my heart and clenching its uncompromising fist, trying to drag me under. I had thought that our reunion of sorts would have filled me with the lightness that I had been craving for so long, but it only seems to taunt me; putting happiness within my grasp but keeping it behind glass - unattainable and beautiful.

I have no intention of keeping my friends at bay again, but I must find the peace that my life is craving. I'm just not sure how. I wish there was an owners' manual for life. If only decisions were as easy to make and answers as easy to find as merely looking them up in a book. I could flip to page one hundred and thirty-one and read the paragraph entitled: 'How to Achieve Inner Peace in Five Easy Steps.'

It's not so much a question of, 'what is the meaning of life?' But a question of what is the meaning of _my_ life. What am I supposed to achieve in my short time here on this earth? Even I am able to admit that I have done more in my lifetime than most human beings, but is that enough? I destroyed a murderer. Why can't I feel the pride of that achievement?

I feel as though I am being punished unfairly. Every hurtle in my past threatened to knock me down for good, yet I dusted myself off each time and battled on. Am I now being thrown my last hurdle? Should I just dust myself off as best I can and wait for the end?

I sit up in my bed and glance out the window. The skeletal branches of naked Autumn trees quiver in the wind against a backdrop of roiling clouds in various shades of grey. A group of birds suddenly take flight from a nearby tree and scatter as if startled. Against the grey sky the bare branches look like veins of black ink on parchment. The sight is beautiful, if not a little depressing. Beauty is where you find it I suppose.

It seems I am being morose early today.

I heave a sigh and force myself to throw aside the warmth and safety of my blankets and begin another day.

I am about to put on the kettle for tea when I decide that I don't particularly feel like tea this morning. I place the kettle back in the cupboard, then, as if I had planned it all along, grab my jacket off the back of one of the kitchen chairs and walk out the front door.

'Draco.' I stop suddenly and stare at the blond man coming up the short walk towards me.

Draco smiles in surprise. 'Harry, I was just coming to see you.'

'Obviously,' I answer dryly, zipping up the front of my jacket and turning to lock the door.

'On your way out?'

'Very astute this morning, aren't you?' I remark as he stops before me.

'May I join you?' he asks, unperturbed.

'If you want.' I shrug. 'I'm just off to get some coffee.'

'I have my car if you'd prefer,' he offers.

'Actually, the walk is sort of what I was looking forward to…'

'Alright,' Draco immediately agrees.

'You're in a good mood,' I observe as we start off along the pavement together.

'Yes, especially considering that you didn't ring me once since the last time I saw you.'

I smile a little and shove my hands deep into my pockets. 'I just needed some time to…digest. Sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you, I was intending to call you tomorrow actually.'

'Don't worry about it,' Draco dismisses easily, gazing up at the foreboding sky over our heads.

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

'Um, I don't know if I thanked you-' I start.

'You did.'

'Oh, well…good. I was a little out of it at the hospital.'

'Yeah, I remember.' He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and I catch his gaze. He flashes me a quick smile. 'So, how did it go with the glimmer twins?' he asks, purposely changing the subject.

I grin in remembrance. 'Good. Really good, in fact. It started to feel like old times again. I almost can't believe they accepted me back so easily, and without question.'

'What have they to question you for?' Draco asks. 'You didn't do anything wrong.'

'Leaving them with only a note before disappearing for eight years?' I remind him heavily. 'I don't know that I would forgive and forget so easily.'

'I think they weresimply happy to have you back, and everything else seemed suddenly trivial.'

'That's not how _you_ felt,' I say with a smirk.

Draco chuckles and nods. 'True, but you forget that I am a Slytherin, and therefore unrelenting in my bitterness.'

'And now it all seems trivial to you as well?'

Draco glances at me again, making sure to catch my eye. 'Forgiven and forgotten.'

'I wasn't really apologizing, but thanks anyway.' I smile teasingly.

Draco laughs. 'Then you're not forgiven.'

I laugh along with him as we enter the same coffee shop I visited the day before my birthday all those months ago. It's anice changeto notcome here alone for once. Another thought occurs to me as we join the small queue of early morning customers.

'Isn't it your birthday soon?'

Draco fidgets uneasily with his wallet, avoiding my gaze. 'Yeah.'

'In about…eleven days, right?' I persist, keeping beside him as we move forward a few paces.

'Ten, actually,' he corrects absently.

I smirk as Draco pretends to peruse the display of gourmet coffee tins. 'Something tells me you're not exactly enthused about turning thirty.'

He closes his eyes briefly, looking pained. 'Please don't mention that number.'

I chuckle as I remove my wallet and order two black coffees to go.

'It's on me old man,' I say as Draco tries to hand me a fiver.

'Thanks,' he accepts with a roll of his eyes.

I smile and grasp my own coffee warmly between my hands as we struggle back through the crowd of gathering people and out of the shop.

'It's starting to rain,' Draco observes with a frown.

It all seems so familiar: the early morning, the walk to the coffee shop, the rain…

'Shall we go back to your place?' Draco is asking me, stepping back under the cover of the faded green awning.

'No, I don't think so…' I say slowly, turning towards him. 'I think I'm going to take a walk.'

'In the rain?' he asks, disbelievingly.

'Yeah. In the rain.'

'Alright.' He sighs in resignation, stepping back out onto the wet pavement.

'You don't have to come,' I say.

'No, it's alright. How else am I going to spend any time with you, since you seem to have forgotten my phone number.'

I smile and take a sip of my steaming coffee, inhaling the delicious smell with reverence. I glance both ways, then carefully cross the street with Draco by my side.

'Do you have a destination in mind, or are we to wander aimlessly?' Draco asks as I lead him away from the central area of the city.

'There's somewhere I need to go,' I answer vaguely, not really wanting to explain, or perhaps simply unable to.

Draco nods and takes a sip from his white polystyrene cup. I watch for a moment as his pale throat contracts, swallowing the hot liquid.

'Sounds serious,' he observes casually.

'What does?'

'This place that you need to visit.'

I blink and look away. 'I suppose it is, in a way. I don't know. It's just somewhere I go to think.'

'Are you sure you don't mind the company?' he asks, glancing sideways at me.

'No.' I smile reassuringly. 'It's fine. We can talk there.'

'Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?' he hazards.

'Us,' I respond bluntly. 'Among other things.'

Draco nods, watching the wet pavement pass beneath his feet. 'Good.'

We spend the rest of the time walking in silence, alternately drinking our coffee and watching the world around us. The cars are whizzing past; wiper blades frantically swiping to and fro across the rain-slickened windscreens, people running past; huddled in their rain coats and holding newspapers over their heads, children stomping in puddles while their parents scold.

I don't know why most people hate the rain, it gives everything atmosphere. It has such an emotional depth to it. It has a sound, a feeling. It's peaceful. Bright sunlight has always felt chaotic to me, maybe because it doesn't allow you to be quiet and melancholy. Sunshine doesn't leave room for complex emotions and I like the option of feeling sad.

I wordlessly hand Draco my empty cup as we pass a rubbish bin and he tosses it in along with his own.

'Harry?' he says questioningly as I stop at the entrance to the cemetery.

I place a hand on the iron gate and stare past the black-painted bars, my eyes seeking out the familiar stone statue in the distance.

'This is it,' I say quietly.

'Harry.' Draco puts a hand on my shoulder and I turn to look at him. 'What are we doing here?'

'We came here to talk, remember?' I turn away from his concerned gaze and push the gate ajar. It swings open on a whisper and I step through onto the gravel path.

I hear Draco's hesitant footsteps behind me as I walk along the path then veer off onto the grass. Soon, I tune him out completely and am back in my own world again; my world of solitude and quiet escape. This is my sanctuary, my haven – my future.

A stitch in my side causes me to slow as I ascend the grassy slope, my eyes locked on the stone Angel drawing ever nearer. I can see her facial features quite clearly now, that expression of sorrow that's haunted me since finding her that stormy day so long ago. I know the tears are once again running down her stone cheeks as the rain continues to pelt me from above, the grass growing slippery beneath my feet, the burning in my chest intensifying. Still, I continue to stare at my goal; my Angel. Is she crying for me? _I_ have never cried for me…

'Harry, slow down.' Draco grasps my elbow lightly, causing me to blink and look away from my Angel and to his worried face.

I blink again, waiting, trying to control my uneven breathing.

'Harry, you look pale – are you alright?'

I nod automatically, but am suddenly aware of the cold sweat all over my body, my face feels especially clammy. The burning in my lungs has eased a little now that I am standing still.

Draco frowns, not believing me for a second. I can see it in his eyes.

'Where are you taking us?' he finally asks quietly.

'Up there.' I jerk my head in the direction of the Angel, my eyes lingering on her stone figure.

Draco spares her a brief glance. 'Okay, but let's take it slow, alright?'

I nod again and allow him to leave his hand on my elbow as we walk onwards up the grassy hill. I smile as we reach the summit, my gaze firmly glued to my statue.

I walk towards her and stand at the base, tilting my head back to look up into her face. The tears are streaming down her cracked cheeks at a steady pace.

'Harry?' Draco speaks hesitantly. 'Who's buried here?'

'I don't know,' I answer vaguely.

Draco appears at my side and he reads the inscription carved into the wet stone. 'Then why…?'

'I don't know,' I say again. 'I don't know why I come here. I don't know why I like it here, or why I find comfort here. I don't even know why I brought you here today.'

Draco takes my frozen hand in his and follows my gaze to the Angel's heartbroken face. 'Maybe you wanted to share a little of your world with me.'

I smile fondly. 'You understand more then you know, Draco.'

'Could you help me with the parts I don't?'

I finally turn to look at him. 'Maybe you're not meant to understand it all.'

He pauses. 'Do _you_ understand it all, Harry?'

I smile and walk around the statue, gently pulling Draco after me, and perch on the edge of the square base, looking out over the wet and misty countryside below.

'Not yet,' I say, answering his question. 'I don't suppose I ever will. Maybe everything becomes clear at that moment of death; that split second when you know you're dying and you're soul is slipping away, and suddenly you know…_it_.'

'What?'

'All the why's and how's of life, I suppose. It's the how's that make up our existence and the why's that make us live it.'

'Do you have a lot of why's left?' Draco asks, watching me.

'Not as many as I once did.' I turn to smile warmly at him. 'But enough to keep me here for some time, I think.'

Draco squeezes my hand, his soft grey eyes reflecting the fog swirling around us. 'I don't want another phone call like that ever again.'

'You saved my life,' I tease.

'I guess that makes us even,' he drawls, matching my easy tone.

'Good,' I chuckle. 'I'd hate to leave behind any unpaid debts.'

Draco's grip on my hand tightens for a moment. 'Don't talk about it, Harry. I don't even want to think about it.'

'I know,' I say with a sigh. I look out over the beautiful landscape spread out below us. The fog is hiding most of the world, leaving only the headstones and crosses visible above the hovering clouds of white. Sometimes I wonder if someone ordered the rest of the world to cease existing while I am here, it feels like the beginning of time, or perhaps the end. It is a serene moment of tranquility, the ultimate in peace and the beauty of life – whether it's an end or a beginning, or just one of those brief moments when you truly appreciate it all.

I move closer to my companion, wondering if he understands even that much as he gazes out over my secret Eden. 'Just because we don't talk about it, that doesn't mean it's not going to happen,' I say quietly, not wanting to dispel the magic.

Draco sighs heavily. 'I know.'

I feel sorry for him then. He may not understand everything of what I'm going through and the reasons behind the things that I do, but I can't even begin to understand what he is thinking and feeling. I wonder if he feels torn about taking up our relationship again, now that he knows it can't be forever. Will it be worth the eventual pain in the end?

'Draco?'

He turns to me, liquid grey eyes searching my face questioningly.

'What do you want to know?' I ask.

'About what?'

'About anything. I want you to understand.'

He smiles sadly and turns away, his eyes upon the misty scenery but not really seeing it. 'Tell me about Andrew.'

My breath catches in my throat and my heart is suddenly gripped in an iron fist. It takes a few seconds that last an eternity before I'm able to speak.

'What…what do you want to know?'

* * *

--This chapter will be posted in two parts. The second part will be posted at a later date.


	11. Harry's Epilogue

**Part 11 – Harry's Epilogue**

"I want to know how it ended."

I pause a moment, mentally readying myself for the forthcoming conversation. "Badly. He died."

Draco turns back to me and strangely, in the recesses of my mind, I take note of just how beautiful he is.

"How? When?"

I lean back against the cold stone statue, the dampness beginning to seep into my clothes, and look out over the ghostly landscape.

"We were both nineteen and in our second year of Auror training," I start, sounding robotic to my own ears. "We met when we were seventeen, our professors paired us together. It didn't take long to realise that there was an attraction there. He was funny and kind and brave – I always teased him for being too perfect. I fell in love with him and we planned to spend the rest of our lives together."

I swallow past the lump in my throat and force myself to continue.

"The war suddenly got a lot worse; it looked like we were going to lose, and all the Auror trainees were sent into battle to help out. Dumbledore and the rest of them always kept me apart, knowing that I was to only go in when Voldemort made an appearance. Andrew was always sent in with the others. I hated that he was out of my sight and in danger…"

I close my eyes and continue, the scene playing out in my mind.

"Then one day Dumbledore came to me while Andrew and I were together in the courtyard and told me that it was time. Voldemort had been spotted. Andrew followed me to my room and watched me prepare…"

_I grip my wand tightly in my sweaty fist. I was ready._

_I turn to see Andrew watching me, his brown eyes glassy with emotion, and still he doesn't say a word._

"_Andrew, I…"_

_I didn't know what to say. It was hard enough for me to watch him go off into battle, but at least I knew that he wasn't up against Voldemort – alone._

"_Harry, please let me come with you," he pleads quietly._

"_You can't," I answer sadly. "It's my turn to fight."_

_Andrew nods in understanding, tears dropping from his lashes._

"We hugged each other then, not knowing it would be our last." My voice wavers for the first time and Draco grips my hand tightly.

"I walked into battle with Dumbledore by my side. I fought Voldemort in the midst of that hell and won. Eventually. Dumbledore and Snape were both dead when the dust settled - and so was Andrew. I remember falling to my knees after killing Voldemort and staying there for an eternity then suddenly I could hear screaming. It was Hermione. She had found Andrew…

_  
I drop to my knees for the second time that night and pull Andrew's body into my arms. His heart is still beating faintly, and very very slowly, but he isn't conscious. _

"_Andrew!" I cry over and over again; shaking him, kissing his lips and cheeks and hair._

_Hermione stands over us, watching, her hands over her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. The others around us are still rounding up the last of the Death Eaters. _

"_Andrew, please don't leave me…" I whisper into his ear. "It's over now; we can be together and never have to be apart again. Please wake up. Please…"_

"_Harry, he's…" Hermione chokes out._

_I knew full well what she was going to say. I shake my head and continue to rock him. _

"_We can see the world now Andrew – anywhere you want," I promise._

_I can't feel his heartbeat anymore._

"_We've got each other and our whole lives ahead of us…"_

_I feel something twist in my heart - reality sets in - and I let go of him, his body sliding off my lap. I sob uncontrollably over his motionless body, not caring who's watching or what they think. _

_The love of my life is dead and I knew I would never recover._

"Emptiness settled into my entire being," I explain, hot tears slipping down my chilled cheeks. "I don't remember much of anything after the war. I remember returning to Auror school to finish my training..."

"And testifying for me," Draco interjects quietly.

I open my eyes and turn to him.

"You saved my life that day Harry."

"But I couldn't save _his_… He snuck out there to watch over me and it got him killed."

Draco pulls me closer and slips his arms around me.

"You didn't know he was there Harry. You couldn't possibly have saved everyone. You killed Voldemort and saved the future of the wizarding world. And you saved _my_ life. With Dumbledore and Snape dead, no one else knew that I was working as a spy – except you."

I smile tearfully into the folds of Draco's soft shirt and slip my arms around him in return.

"Then what happened?" he prompts after a few minutes of silence, allowing me to collect myself.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "I stayed in Auror training for a couple more years-"

"And I followed you there."

I sit up and look into Draco's eyes. "You never told me that," I say in surprise.

He shrugs and looks away. "It was pretty pathetic. And I didn't want you to think I was in love with you because you saved my life."

"That was a part of it though wasn't it?" I ask.

He shrugs again. "Maybe. That might have led me there but it soon turned very real."

"I'm sorry I wasn't the best…boyfriend then."

"Either was I," Draco admits with a smile. "You were my first male partner and…well…"

"It was just about sex," I chuckle. "I wasn't ready for anything emotional and you were a horny gay virgin."

Draco laughs and the sound is strange in such a gloomy and reverent place.

"It's no wonder we had problems."

"In bed?" I ask coyly.

"No, never in that department," Draco smirks.

I smile in remembrance, trying to keep my body from remembering _too_ much.

"Then you cut out and left," Draco says suddenly, seriously.

I look back into his grey eyes and see pain there.

"You didn't even tell me…" he says sadly.

"I know, I'm sorry. We'd broken up – for the twentieth time or something – and you were with someone else-"

"You mean I had a one night stand and Weasley told you that I was in love."

"He didn't say that," I reply instantly. "But he did see you two together and told me that you had moved on. When we broke up you said it was for the last time, that I was screwed up and that you didn't want any part of this anymore."

Draco remains quiet.

I sigh. "Anyway, I did what I did because I didn't think you would care if I left or not."

"Of course I cared Harry," he explodes. "God, I was still so in love with you I thought I'd go mad!"

I stare at the blond in shock.

"And it hasn't faded," he admits quietly, looking down.

I shake my head a little and suddenly become aware of my heart. I'd lost track of its beats and emotions a long time ago – and now it's suddenly there again. Like something dead coming alive once more.

It's the most fantastic feeling in the world.

"Harry?" Draco speaks questioningly.

I blink and come to.

"You have no idea what you've just… What it means to me..." I try to explain haltingly.

Draco smiles, his eyes softening.

I return the smile and, not to be distracted, finish my story as quickly as possible. In Coles notes fashion.

"So I left everything, dated a few other men, quite a few really - trying to run from the past I suppose – and ended up jobless, HIV positive and alone."

"Do you know who…" Draco trails off hesitantly.

"Gave me AIDS?" I finish and Draco nods solemnly. "A man named Ben. He was the longest relationship I had during those years, lasted five months I think. He's the only man I've had unprotected sex with besides you and Andrew. I didn't want to be alone anymore and I thought we could be together even though I didn't love him. Turns out it wasn't enough – for either of us."

"And now you've come full circle," Draco says slowly, letting it all sink in.

"I suppose." I shrug, glancing out over the empty graveyard.

Draco takes my chin in his hand and turns my eyes back to his face.

"I'm not talking about the cemetery Harry," he says sternly. "I'm talking about the life that you weren't ready for at twenty-one, but are now ready for at thirty."

I roll my eyes. "Don't remind me Dray, I feel old enough without you saying it."

"You're the only one I can tolerate calling me that," he says, relaxing. "But I have to admit, I've missed it."

I smile and look back out over the graveyard below. The fog is still swirling in misty clouds and it looks as though it might rain soon.

I take a deep breath and stand up.

This isn't where I belong anymore. The comfort it used to lend me has ended and I need a change of scenery.

Draco stands beside me and hesitantly slips a warm hand into mine.

I turn and without another word, begin to lead him away; away from the Angel and her tears, the graveyard, the bleak loneliness - and out through the front entrance.

The black iron gates clang shut behind us. This is where my story ends for you and begins for me.

My story may not be novel length but I'm going to live it just the same.


End file.
